Jailbait
by SewerAngel
Summary: Dr. Harleen Quinzel is bored- very bored, but that wont last long. My version of the events leading up to the birth of Harley Quinn, a definite slow burn. Intermittent appearances from other rogues/ batman characters, but this story focuses mostly on Harley and her developing relationship with Joker
1. Chapter 1

**Authors note:** _If there's anyone out there, this is my spiel- thanks for listening! This is my attempt to conquer the iconic and rather popular mad love story- I know every other writer has done it and there really are some wonderful versions but I wanted to give it my own spin, and I sincerely hope that I've created something fresh._

 _This story is from Harley's perspective, documenting her life in and out of Arkham, eventually leading to her transition into our beloved Harley Quinn. I do borrow from comic cannon in some places, but this work veers quite frequently off that map, so don't expect it to be completely faithful to that._

 _My Harley is probably most similar to a pre-52 Harley, that said, this is my take on the character, so there are some notable differences._

 _My Joker is a mix of mainstream comic incarnations with a dash of Arkham series Joker- but you should Definitely be hearing Mark Hamill's_

 _I will be updating as frequently as possible- probably every two weeks or so, barring unforeseen circumstances._

 _In conclusion, I hope this is an enjoyable read and I apologize in advance for any spelling errors- I've done my best to edit but sometimes I can miss really obvious mistakes._

 _Constructive criticism and reviews are appreciated!_

 **CHAPTER 1:** Into the Abyss

I sit attempting to compose myself, though the term is relative because my muscles are tensed to eject me from the room at a moment's notice. I close my eyes, and take stock of my anxiety.

1\. My lungs seemed to have crawled up into my trachea, pressing on my esophagus.

2\. Every muscle in my body is being juiced with acetylcholine. Classic, sympathetic nervous system response. Just Cortisol and Adrenaline.

Conclusion: I am not dying. I am not going to die today in this room. This is just performance anxiety-and it's justified, because I'm about to meet a highly skilled con man. A man who devours lives not for sustenance but for _joy_.

I've meet lots of the former, a few of the latter. But this feels categorically different. _This_ is the ultimate specimen of psychopathy. He is the _apex predator_. I've read the case files, spoken to a few colleges who've worked with him and I'm still waiting for that sense of readiness, the composure I've become accustomed to in my work. I glance at my reflection in the two-way glass across from me and am perturbed but unsurprised to see that I do _not_ have my game face on.  
At all-not even a little.

I try to ground myself, focus on the buzz of the artificial bulbs, the way they make the hospital-green walls look dirty, all of the uneven patches where the drywall had to be repaired because a patient got _overexcited_. I feel my breath start to hitch again.

 _Oh no no no. This will not do. Pull yourself together Harleen, you're a professional, you don't want to waste a chance like this!_

Sobered by the appetency of the academic opportunity at hand, I take a moment to smooth my hair into its bun, readjust my glasses, and straighten my clipboard. An approaching set of footsteps sends a fresh rush of adrenaline into my blood stream and I remind myself that it's priming my body for optimized performance. I can do this. I've been preparing for this for years. I am ready.  
The door opens and he walks in, smile first.

My first thought is that even without the makeup, he is still _shockingly_ white.

His limbs are long and wiry beneath the jumpsuit and the straight jacket, and he is half a head taller than the two guards escorting him in. He struts like he's walking onstage, though his rather beaten slip-on shoes scuff against the dingy tile flooring. Not surprising they don't allow him shoelaces. I note a suspicious red stain on the toe. _Come on, look him in the eyes,_ I think.

I make it to his mouth first; to the scars that carve his face into a permanent rictus. Like horrid little mountain ranges they swell and dive. Sometimes he says he did them himself, sometimes it was one mobster or another, or his father or a lover-his stories change as quickly as his attending doctors. In the absence of his warpaint, the pink lines make him look skeletal.

His features are angular, his nose thin and his nostrils flared like a cats. His eyes, however, are what the case files can't capture- acid green islands swimming in an expanse of white sclera.

He looks alert in spite of the high dosage of Amisulpride they have him on, but what surprises me most is neither the color nor the medically improbable vigilance. It's something he radiates; it's wanton unpredictability and unfounded malicious euphoria. I find that for once I have no read, no intuition.

I stand as the guard pulls out the chair across from me, and _he_ steps forward, not having broken his dangerously puckish gaze since he entered the room. I find that I have to crane my neck to look him in the eye as I stand in his protracted shadow, only coming up to his sternum.

"Hello Mr. Doe," I hear myself say, the pitch of my voice a little higher than I would like. "I'm Doctor Quinzel."

His mouth twitches- dyskinesia or micro expression?

"What's up Doc?" His tongue darts out to wet his lips. His voice is deeper than I thought it would be. "I'd uh-shake your hand but I'm a little tied up at the moment." He chuckles, leaning forward at the end of the sentence, but the guard jerks him back and then shoves him with unnecessary force into his seat. He bites at the guard's retreating hand, and hoots with laughter, then leans back like a king settling into his throne. Resting an ankle on his knee, he tucks his chin to look at me from under his brow. The posturing is both casual and sinister.  
I frown, redirecting my attention to the senior C.O.

"Was that really necessary?"

The older man rolls his eyes at me, his florid face glowing under the florescent light.

"Listen lady, I know you ain't been here long and you seem a little wet under the ears so I'll give you a hint: this animal would tear you apart and dance in your blood without a second thought if he got the chance." Glancing at the man in question I see that he's cocked an eyebrow as if to say _he's right little girl, and I'd look simply divine wearing your insides._ I suppress a shudder of something between fear and anticipation, looking back to the guard.

"So don't go critiquin' me!" He blathers on. "I'm here to protect you- and at least _I_ know how to do my job!"

I _would_ like to nail the imbecile in the face with my clipboard, but instead I clasp my hands behind my back and widen my stance a little. I smile, intending to display a removed confidence, but it might just look like I'm baring my teeth. Either way he seems a bit jarred.

"I often forget that some peoples' parents don't teach them not to judge a book by its cover, and I'm sorry to say that yours have quite obviously failed you-" I read his name off his badge. "Officer Bradley."

I have to admit he has perfect timing. I needed an opportunity to remind myself how I got here, that I _deserve_ to be here. So I let loose little.

"I don't know if you feel insecure having a young female superior, or if you're just trying to compensate for a _certain_ sub-par appendage, but I will _not_ have you undermine my authority in front of a patient-" _He_ whistles with the mirth of a child reveling in the toppling of a kicked sand castle. I try to shove his presence to the edge of my consciousness for the moment, but he makes that fairly difficult as he begins to hum the theme from Jaws. "I could stand here and recite my credentials, but I consider that a waste of time." I say, putting my hands on the table between us, conquering a bit of the guards ground and savoring his uncertainty. "So you have two options: either you learn to treat me and my clients with respect and courtesy, or I write you up for insubordination and mistreatment of a patient. " Bradley looks dumbly at me, his blubbery lips hanging slack like a fish's mouth.  
A high staccato giggle breaks my concentration.

"That's right doc, give him _a real good spanking_ \- you'd like that wouldn't you Officer? You _masochistic_ little minx you- HA HA!"

Well at least _someone_ is enjoying himself; Officer Bradley however, by the quivering of his jowls and the rapid flush of his already ruddy skin, is not.  
I smile, all sugar and spice.

"So? What's it going to be?" I ask.

Poor Bradley turns back to me and admirably attempts to soften his gaze.

"Sorry ma'am, won't happen again." He mumbles.

"Glad to hear it." I respond coldly but not unprofessionally.

 _Damn Harleen_ , _you are on a roll today_!

The shamed C.O finishes his job of hooking a metal chain attached to the back of my patients straightjacket to a clasp set into the back wall.

Despite the burning frustration of feeling like I constantly have to prove myself to arrogant men who couldn't touch my Weschler score with a ten-foot pole, the familiar argument has my engine running at full speed. Quite revitalized, I can't wait to dig into the man I wrote my honors thesis on. So I smooth my skirt, and take my seat in front of the Joker.

I buy myself time, crossing my legs and resting my clipboard on them. When I look up he arches one cartoonish eyebrow, and I wonder if he's blinked at all or if he has a second invisible eyelid like a snake.

On TV you see him with his hair electric emerald and slicked back in a tidy pompadour. He'd been back for two weeks before they let me see him, and in that time the usually tightly shorn sides had grown out, and the longer, now dulled green mop on top had been pushed to one side. His roots are just starting to peek through. Light brown-or maybe ginger.  
 _I guess I'll find out_.

I know that he's waiting for me to say something, anything. I know that once I open my mouth he will try to take my words and make them dance on puppet strings. I can see now why most doctors don't get far with him, he looks at you as though he's peeling you layer by layer, feeling out your innards. I smile pleasantly at the mass murderer and he smiles back.

" So Mr. Doe, what would you like to talk about?" There's that twitch again, maybe related to my use of the placeholder name? There's a moment where he's not quite looking at me, not quite in the room despite the fact that he hasn't moved an inch. It's only when he's back and he's peeling me again that I realize he wasn't gone, he was _calculating_.

"How delightfully _old fashioned_ of you Quinzel." He purrs my name and I mute the shiver running down my spine. "No one in here EVER thinks to ask what _I_ want to talk about!" He plays the prosody of his voice like a fiddle, making every utterance a grand production. I can tell that if he were unrestrained he'd be gesturing wildly

"If you wanna gab then _lets_ _gab_! How about we talk about my dreams? They wont let me keep a journal, _I'm_ not allowed pens." He sniffs, like it's an outrage. "I tell ya, this place is worse than airport security." I resist the urge to snort- the last time he got hold of a pen he performed a rather fatal tracheotomy on a nurse. They found him blowing bubbles into her throat. "No need to worry though, I keep them all in here," He knocks his left shoulder into his head. "So hopefully you can make sense of them- I keep having one where I'm about to stab mom- OOPSIES! I meant Tom! The congressman! HA!" The giggles bubble up between words as if he really can't restrain himself. " Isn't it funny when you say one thing and mean your mother? HA HA! Silly me, I've done it again!"

There isn't a chance he's being serious of course, but it is impressive that he managed to guess I was borrowing from psychoanalytical technique based on my open-ended starter question. This time when I smile, it's genuine and I know he doesn't miss it.

"Do you read much Freud then, Mr. Doe?"

Immediate twitch. It's almost definitely about the name then. That's going to be a useful tell.

"No. I only read mad libs." He says, sedately for a man who seconds ago was cracking up. Though the orientation of his mouth and brows portray the essence of continence, the mania is unmistakable in his eyes.

He's lying of course, it's not as if I don't have access to the feed from his cell. I take a moment to sublimate my eye roll and jot a note about the twitch.  
It's a rush, speaking to an equal.

"Oooh!" he squeals, startling me quite effectively. "Make sure you get my good side, write me like one of your French girls."

"Do you have a problem with me writing notes about our sessions?"

"Me? _Never_. But I don't think you _need_ them." He says guilefully.

"And why is that?"

"Because you'll ruin all the good stuff that'll happen in your noodle!" He exclaims, seeming to escalate like someone's turned up the contrast. "You see, people _think_ you need to remember everything exactly as it was-and they do all they can to record it, they try to hold on to it. But they're just slaves to the past-and the past _isn't. Even. Real!_ Everybody thinks they have a _stable_ personality, they think they're a product of circumstances _or some crap like that,_ and they use that as an excuse. But they haven't even _seen_ the tip of the iceberg- _I have_. I know how malleable the human mind is. So many _fun_ gears to turn and knobs to push, if you have the right… _touch,_ you can make a _whole new person."_ He roles that last bit across his tongue with relish, like it tastes particularly good.

Classic. Doesn't like talking about the past. I feel like I did as a lion obsessed five year old finally getting to see a live one roar at the zoo.

"So how does one go about making a whole new person?"

" Did I tell you I love your accent Doc? Its just _sinfully_ scrumptious."

I blink. Was that as lascivious as it sounded? Yes it was, come on Quinzel-you know he likes to make people uncomfortable. And he's deflecting.

"You didn't answer my question."

"Yes well, you don't want to eat _all_ your Easter chocolate in one go, do you?"

"I rather like chocolate."

" _Dangerous game_ , eating too much chocolate-it'll make ya sick." He chuckles darkly.

I frown slightly, feeling quite let down after my lion tamer moment. He caricatures my chagrin, scars only adding to the comedy, and I swallow a laugh.

"Well if I can't have the chocolate, can I have the peeps?"

If possible, his smile widens.

"Since you put it _so nicely_ , ask away Doc."

"Why do people think they have stable personalities?"

"Because they think that if they follow a bunch of _arbitrary rules_ and guidelines, if they do _all the right stuff_ , they get to fit into a nice box. People _love_ boxes, because boxes create order. They can breed with other people in their boxes and make little box-families!" He plasters on a hyperbolic wholesomeness. " The funny bit is there's no such thing as order! The world is entropy, my dear- so you may as well just get out of the box and _enjoy the ride._ "

"So does being out of the box equate to being free?"

" _Ding Ding Ding!_ We have a winner!" He booms in a voice like a carnival Bally.

"You consider yourself free- even in here?"

" _Why_ would I want to leave? I l _ove_ it here; this place is like my vacation home! Dr. Zappy does a _delectable_ brain floss if you're ever in the mood." He drawls, referring to Dr. Zadd, who performs the electroshock treatments.

He's wonderful at dogging questions, but I know from my predecessors that pushing won't do any good. He's also reminding me that I may be in here with him, but that I'm not one of _them_.

"Is there anyone here you like to talk to?" I already know he doesn't have friends.

"Zsasz is always good for a laugh. Nygma's tolerable if he's not being too…neurotic."

"Do you think Nygma's in a box?"

"Of course he is! Kid thinks he can predict the whole world with a bit of math and a few lines of code. HA! You can't map the future, it's just like I said: entropy!"

I shake my head.

"Don't try to tell me you don't make plans. I _know_ your work."

His eyes flash at my use of the term 'work'. _That_ was definitely a mistake.

" _Oh I plan_. I just know how to plan _with_ the chaos." He giggles. "And by the way, glad to know you're a _fan."_

"I'm not sure I would put it that way. I think your _actions_ are the product of a very interesting paradigm."

"Yes _of course_ , we wouldn't want to glorify violence would we?"

"Is that what you think you do?"

"Are you asking if that's my big purpose? _HA!_ To breed a generation of school shooters? Maybe build a _great clown army_? Hilarious! I've already got that, and all I had to do was _put out a casting call_. Seriously I was starting to think you were smart, this is _really_ very disappointing. Violence is _already_ glorified; you don't need me for that. People just get freaked out because I employ it _privately._ "

"Well I _certainly_ wouldn't be very smart if I thought it was that simple. But I would be an imbecile to think that you're not a showman. Perhaps I should have been more specific: why is it that you want attention ?" I try again, my use of the name this time is completely intentional.

"I wanted to be an actor but I was too ugly." His tone says that if he weren't leashed he would be done with this conversation in a way I wouldn't like- _not one bit._ The room suddenly feels drastically colder, but moisture blooms on the skin of my palms.

 _Well shit._

And I thought I was doing so well! I cant lose him this quickly, I need to win him back before the end of the session-If I don't he'll play the silent game until they take him away-

"A sadist, necrophiliac, pyromaniac, zoophiliac, and a masochist were sitting in a jail cell together. The zoophiliac says, 'I want to have sex with a cat.' The sadist says, 'I want to torture a cat then have sex with it.' The pyromaniac says, 'I wanna torture the cat, set it on fire, then have sex with it.' The necrophiliac says, 'Well I want to torture the cat, set it on fire, have sex with it, then kill it and have sex with it again.' Finally, the masochist says, 'Meow."

The whole joke fell out of me in one rushed breath. I don't know why the _hell_ that was the first thing I thought to say- let alone how I thought it was ok in a professional context? How do I explain this to my supervisor?!

Just as that horrid, foreboding feeling is about to anchor itself in my gut - he snickers softly. It builds until he's roaring, really going off, and then I'm laughing too. He's throwing his head back, gasping for air and I feel… _proud?_

"Ahhh, now that's what I call _comedy_! Really, I would be giving you an encore if _buddy_ over there didn't like me in bondage." He says nodding at Bradley, who huffs. "You're just _full_ of surprises, aren't you?" he turns back to me, and there isn't a doubt in my mind I've won him back- I'm just not so sure I did it the right way.

His eyes narrow, lips pursed ever so slightly before he puts that mask on again. A professor of mine used to call his smile that- a mask…but now that I've met him the term doesn't feel quite right.

"I think I owe you a treat for a joke like _that_ , so listen up buttercup cause I'm about to give it to you _good_ : My only purpose is having fun, and I have a _great_ imagination. It's as simple as that!I'm not limited by morality because I know it doesn't _exist!_ We're all just animals doctor Quinn- the only animals dumb enough to think we're something more."

"Non-human animals kill to eat, not for fun. Are you telling me that you want to add cannibalism to your list of recorded offenses?"

"Mmm wouldn't that be a _juicy_ little tidbit for your next paper? You're right though doctor, you caught me. I don't _often_ partake in _long pig_." His eyes flash. "Humans are also the only animal smart enough to crave more than base sustenance."

"So you crave violence?"

"Oh _yes_ doctor, _I do_." His voice is velvet. "But you know that already, I'm the sadist" He chuckles. "and the sociopath and-I think I was schizophrenic, and then one time I had Paranoid personality disorder- HA! I've been _so_ many _wonderful_ things, haven't I? But the real question here is why don't _you_ crave violence _Ms. Quinzel_?"

"I could never take a life-"

I think I mean it. In a dire situation, there's no question that I would do everything in my power to defend myself. But to take a life _for fun_ …

"I didn't ask if you _could_ , I already know that answer perfectly well- _and you're lying to yourself kiddo_." He chuckles, shaking his head at me as if I'm a child asserting that the moon is made of cheese. "Everybody _can_ take a life, people just fill up on pretty little lies to convince themselves that they're lambs instead of lions. For example, you took the Hippocratic oath when you got your medical degree, didn't you? Now what is an oath?"

To be honest my mind is blank.

"A promise. A vow." I regurgitate.

"That's _perfect_ darling you're proving my point!" He says, like I'm his _lovely assistant, haaarleeeeen!_

It would be great if I could stop sounding so dorky sometime soon.

"You don't even know what it is!" he exclaims, and I'm alarmed to realise that he's right. He leans forward to prop his elbows on the desk between us. Latently, it occurs to me he's done so in mimicry of my own posture, though his arms are strapped tightly around his torso.

Something tells me I'm standing too close to the enclosure but still, I can't quite tear myself from it- or _him_ , I should say. The way his expression seems to shift on the minute but his eyes remain bright, with an uncanny focus. " _Oath_ is just a word." he declaims. "Just a random combination of letters that correspond to a randomly selected meaning, _which is made up of more words!_ Nothing has any meaning. The 'oath' you took, the one I'm betting you fought tooth and nail for, is _meaningless._ So why follow the rules? The whole wide world is my playground, just because I _dare_ to see what happens when you break the rules and _piss on the wreckage_ , and _everybody_ wants to play with me." He takes a pause and it's all artifice, all to build the suspense-but it works. I'm clutching my pen like it's the safety bar on a rollercoaster that ends in a cliff-hanger. "I didn't know I liked blowing up buildings until I lit the first fuse- think about how _much_ I would have missed out on if I hadn't tried it out?"

"So why don't more people break the rules?" I ask, barely waiting for him to finish his sentence.

"Lots of people break _some_ rules, but they're too afraid to _burn the rule book_ , and that's the first mistake. Rules are like _viruses_. If you keep them around, they multiply and spread until you forget that they're really just _suggestions_ and before you know it you're trapped in a mediocre apartment by student loans you won't have paid until you're fifty, or until you find a nice wealthy hubby to pay it off for you. Sound _familiar_ doc?"

Eyebrows raised, he scans me. I know he's doing it, cataloguing the minutia of my discomfort. The way my shoulders have bowed and the fallen strand of sandy hair that I have absently started to play with. I shove my hand back into my lap and he winks. I feel my eyebrows knit together before I can subvert the reaction and that smile becomes a bit more hedonistic.

"But the rules help us, they are put in place to protect us from each other and to help us build our lives." I produce another _lovely_ textbook response because I think I might be looking into the rabbit hole, and I think there might be something down there, whispering my name.

"HA! Protect us from each other?" His tone evolves rapidly from glib joviality to quiet thunder. " _What a load of horseshit._ If you think I couldn't get out of this nut house and _slit your throat_ if the mood struck me, you're a _very_ silly little girl indeed." He's right. We've never been able to keep him locked up before. Why would it be different now? "There is no real 'protection' there is no way to build a 'life', haven't you been _listening_?" His voice begins to ratchet up and I swear I can feel it physically battering at my temporal lobes. "The world is _arbitrary_ , it's a giant Rube-Goldberg machine that ends in death, so it doesn't matter what you do because _the dice are already rolling!_ You may as well have a little _fun_. Sanity is just what they call it when you forget that."

The buzz of the timer in my pocket makes me jump.

"Got ants in your pants doc?"

"Unfortunately our time is up for today." I say in a bit of a haze, switching off the timer. He plasters on a ludicrous pout.

" _Aww_ and I was just starting to _enjoy_ myself! Although I can't wait to see what surprises you have up your sleeve for our next session, maybe you could jump out of a cake? I've always been fond of that." He prattles as Bradley goes about unhooking him. "Toodle-ooo! See ya next time- and watch out for those _pesky_ ants!" He calls over his shoulder, his eyebrows dancing. Feral laughter spills out into the hall as they pull him from the room.

I feel quite…dissociated as I pack my things, and when I finally exit the interview room I have the surreal impression that I'm emerging from some underground cell. I blink, blinded by the light, though the glare in the hallway emanates from the same artificial bulbs they use throughout the hospital.

I make it through the rest of my relatively uneventful shift with all the charm and personality of a tuna melt. Thankfully neither clients, nor co-workers make a peep and I'm not forced to acknowledge just how burned out I feel. I had known he was a lit match, it just didn't register that he came with his own supply of oxygen gas.

I check my voicemail on the way to my car- there's one message from my sister asking if I'll join her and her husband for dinner on Sunday. I send her a quick text to confirm, even though we do this every week and it sort of annoys me that she acts like it's still shiny and new. I can without a doubt say we will either be eating meatloaf or Sheppard's pie.

My sister likes to stick to her standards.

I mean that's why Lucy married Paul isn't it? The man isn't exactly an animal in the sack- two glasses of merlot and she'll tell you that herself. I used to spend a lot of time trying to figure out what she saw in him. It's completely obvious now that we're just very different people. I was reading about Dahmer while she was reading Judy Blume. It's a simple matter of taste.

Honestly though, I cant think of anything more boring than resigning myself to alternating meal duty and a standing greys anatomy date with the same person for the rest of my life. I watched her fall into routine with him and felt increasingly phobic about that possibility for myself. I still have nightmares about waking up one day as the proud owner of a minivan used exclusively to shuttle 2.5 kids to soccer practice. So I kicked and screamed against anything even remotely suggestive of settling down. I told my lovers they were just bodies and I railed against my mother when she tried to tell me a Ph.D. would make it too hard to find a husband.

Don't think I regret that- I have my own apartment and a vibrator and career that by nature resists stagnation. I can eat ice cream out of the tub and stay out late and watch as much Buffy in my underwear as I want. There's no one tying me down...but somehow I'm still bored.

I had planned on curling up with some wine and leftover Chinese, but by the time I pull into the parking garage of my building I feel so keyed up that I could probably power a small community if someone stuck me in a hamster wheel. So I change out of my work clothes and grab my gym bag.

Bob's isn't your typical gym. I found out about it from a girl I used to see at parties when I was at Gotham State- Selina. I still see her at Bob's every once and a while but I get the feeling she's a bit of nomad. We bonded because I saw her vault onto the roof of a frat house garage and asked if she was a gymnast. She told me no, she just needed to get away from the 'idiot brigade' before she started a campaign of enforced tooth removal. So I vaulted on to the roof next to her and offered her some of my warm beer, and she showed me the wallets she'd just taken off the football team.

I remember being quite smitten.

She was the essence of independence and unapologetic female confidence, and it was refreshing to talk to someone who didn't shut me down.

 _Anyways._

Bob's was originally a warehouse-and based on its proximity to the docks I'd be willing to bet it used to be mafia property. Bob bought the place just after the Maroni family fell apart using his mother's inheritance, and it is very clearly an homage to her greatest passion, a way to hold on to her presence. He once told me quite gruffly that he'd built it for himself, he never intended on sharing it with us 'kids', but I know he loves seeing us do the things that brought his mother so much joy.

Now Bob is no Wayne, there's no state of the art equipment, no bowflex or elliptical, and when something breaks down we all pitch in to have it fixed. But there's balance bars and a pommel horse and a trampoline, and Bob gave me a key so I can get in whenever I want- which is all I really need.

I Paid for my undergrad with a gymnastics scholarship, though I never really liked competing, it felt like a bastardization somehow. What I loved, what kept me coming back was that feeling of flying through the air, so unfettered that for a few seconds you don't even exist in the real world. Simultaneously being the master of my body and completely at the mercy of gravity...that's the kind of freedom I can't put a price on.

So, after a quick round in the ring with Bob's nephew John, I waste no time climbing up to the trapeze and loosing 2 hours inside my muscles and bones.

By the time I'm packing up there's no one left and I have to lock up. I feel a bit jumpy in the empty shadows stretching between the warehouses, but then again I've been on edge all day. I slip a my keys between the fingers of my fisted hand, thinking to use them as a particularly nasty set of brass knuckles should anyone try to jump me. I think about how it might feel to actually use them, to take a chunk out of some predator who mistook me for prey and a little self-satisfied smile tugs at my lips.

But then, just as my car comes into view, I picture _him_

I jog the rest of the distance.

I had planned on using Saturday to review my notes from that first session- that is I had planned on it until realizing that I hadn't taken any. So instead I review the footage from his cell that I had requested the week before. I watch him strut about, do a jig, and make some very lewd and to be honest, very entertaining gestures at passers by. Mostly he reads and talks to himself, although the feed doesn't have audio so I can't hear what he says. He doesn't sleep much, but when he does, he sleeps like a baby.

Even in the darkness with his eyes closed and his breath slowed, the scars keep him smiling.

At 7:30 I snap out of my trance and realize I've been ruminating. I take my glasses off and rub my eyes.

 _Don't obsess Harleen; it's not healthy._

I pick up my phone to text a friend and ask if she wants to go for a drink. I _really_ need to get out of the house.

I force my self out of my shredded cupcake print pajamas and into a relatively plain red dress, swiping on some mascara and a bit of lipstick to match. I take my blond hair out of its perpetual bun and attempt to brush some of the kinks out of it, but I end up putting it back up

The girl who stares back from my reflection still looks like she's playing dress-up in her mothers clothes, and I sigh. I had a particularly painful set of experiences in university that taught me the only way to be taken seriously was to dress myself down, so I did. Only in the past few years have I felt confident enough to start dressing up a little, and it's still horribly uncomfortable.

I feel like a sore thumb but I need to look passable for the place Ashley suggested.

 _Everyone will be a thumb there, Harleen. You wont even be the sorest one._

Satisfied that at the very least I don't look underage- _years of gymnastics will give a girl a real complex about that_ \- I make my way down town to Eris.

It turns out to be more of a club than a bar- Ashley's always had a taste for the theatrical. Inside I wander a myriad of rooms lit in various colors, all playing different music. I watch woozy girls in stilettos twist and sway against other woozy girls and equally woozy men. I watch cocaine and money exchange hands and think about boxes and rolling dice.

"Harley!" I snap to attention and then melt into Ashley's slightly potted hug. "You look great!" she yells over the music. I do my best to ignore the compliment.

"Its good to see you Ash!"

" You want a drink? I'm getting you a drink, C'mon." and with that she drags me into the watering hole throng that wraps around the bar.

I try to lose myself in the music and alcohol, but behind my eyes I'm still watching his footage. I'm thinking about how, overall, he's responded very well to me. I think my attempts to format our session as more of a natural conversation than an interrogation have paid off. It's entirely possible that he's feeding me bullshit like he's done with everyone else but…I don't know. It didn't have quite the same sweet carrion reek. Maybe if our sessions keep going well I can persuade the warden to let him out of the straight jacket-I don't like having such a terrible read on his body language.

I feel hands on my hips and look behind me to see a blond guy with a jawline like Adonis. And though I'm annoyed he couldn't have at least approached me from the front, I want a distraction, and it's been a while since I got to palm some ass- _if you'll excuse my language_. So I dance with him until my legs feel like Jenga towers near the end of the game and Ash sweeps me into a cab.

Once I finally manage to wrestle my key into the lock, I stumble to the sink; my only thought being to relieve the gritty dryness of my tongue. I fill a glass, struggling to see only one faucet. In my disordered state I miss my mouth, pouring water down my face and onto my dress. I huff and absently wipe at my face with the back of my hand, greedily gulping down as much water as I can swallow without choking.

Oh! _Oooh no_.

My stomach turns with the sudden flood and I rush to the bathroom, falling to my knees and emptying myself into the toilet. When the heaving subsides I stand with some difficulty, and grasp onto the sink to steady myself. I catch sight of my reflection, of the vivid red smears on my cheeks, and I laugh.


	2. Chapter 2

**Authors note:** Thanks to everyone for the lovely reviews! You guys make me feel all warm and fuzzy 3

also, just to clarify a little on my Joker: I have a specific origin in mind for him but I haven't decided whether or not he remembers it, so I don't know if I'll end up writing it. In terms of comic cannon though, it's closest to the events in batman confidential: Lovers and madmen, minus the acid bath. My Joker is just naturally very pale and he dyes his hair.

Also yeah, get ready for some of my chapters to be fairly long, the length is based on content and apparently I am kinda long winded.

thats all for now, I hope you enjoy!

 **CHAPTER 2** : A broken stiletto heel is a girls best friend

 **"** I'm teary-eyed but never cry. Silver-tongued, but I never lie. Double-winged, but I never fly. Air-cooled, I but never dry. What am I Eddy?" Nygma's face lights up and I smile back. I have a soft spot for this kid. He mostly means well, he just has some sizeable insecurities and paranoias. He's been doing all right lately though, a little less volatile.

"Good one doctor Q, easy for me of course, but that can't be helped. It's mercury!" he claps. "My turn. What is he that builds stronger than the mason, the shipwright, or the carpenter?"

I know the answer immediately but it pulls something darker with it.

"The executioner."

 _Death is the only lasting monument._

"Well done! It feels good to talk to someone _near_ my calibre." I'll let that slide.

A distinctly mournful expression passes over his features.

"Sometimes…" he starts, not looking at me. "You remind me of someone I used to know." His pain is visible in the slouch of his shoulders and it wrenches my heart.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"NO!" he snaps. "How much longer do we _have_ in this session? I just got a new crossword and that would be _infinitely_ more productive than _this_." He turns his nose up at me, his horn-rimmed glasses sliding up the bridge.

I sigh. Good job Harleen.

Great start to a week.

Turns out I don't even get away with the allegedly inappropriate joke I told patient J. Dr. Leland comes after me in the lunch room and drags me into her office, going on about how I'm encouraging his violent tendencies and possibly triggering his delusions, you get the gist. I hold the rage boiling in my stomach because it won't help my cause, and I clasp my hands on my knees.

"Well? Do you have anything to say for yourself Harleen? Please don't make me regret that recommendation."

"With all due respect Doctor, What we've been doing hasn't been working." She's a smart woman; I know she agrees with me about that at least. "He's not getting better; he doesn't show any remission- we can't even get his story straight. He doesn't react well to an aggressive approach, it needs to be more subtle, I need him to like me."

Leland frowns.

"He doesn't _like_ anyone."

"I mean I need him to respect me. Did you watch the rest of the session?"

"Yes."

"Then you saw him open up, just a little. He didn't try to bite me, he didn't give me the silent treatment. He was _explaining_ things to me. I can _do_ this, I can get through to him, I can feel it! You just need to be a little… lenient."

She seems to at least be considering it, and I'm immensely glad she likes me. I need all the little points I can get.

"What are you asking for Harleen?" She asks with begrudging caution.

"Just a little understanding on your part about the nature of our conversations…and permission to call him by his preferred name."  
Leland crosses her arms and screws up her mouth, then blows a few stray hairs out of her face.

"You better be damn sure about this."

"I am."

"...Fine. But I was serious Quinzel! I don't want to regret helping you here!"

" I promise you won't. Thank you so much Doctor Leland."

"Yeah whatever. Get out of my sight." She mutters, rubbing her eyes.  
I strut triumphantly back to the lunchroom. Though I'm not even 50% sure of the things I told her, I still allow myself to think that maybe things are turning up.

This week I go to Bob's every night. I try to work myself into exhaustion so I can sleep, but it's getting less and less effective. Suddenly the gym isn't enough, and the next time I spar with John there's a little voice taunting me, saying _let loose Quinzel, hurt him. You know you could.  
_ I don't of course, but the thought stays there and festers. And each night when I go home I attempt to force myself into REM but I never can. So I sit up, I turn on the light, and I open up my laptop. I watch him until I pass out.  
It's Friday until I see him in person again.

Though the scars force his grin, his mouth is pressed into a tight line. He seems decidedly unsettled, fidgeting in his straight jacket. I can relate to that. When he takes his seat he doesn't look at me, arching a brow and pointedly staring somewhere to my left. On the bright side, Officer Bradley is being absurdly polite.

"Hello, how was your week?"

"Oh it's been a real _killer._ " He grumbles. I try not to roll my eyes.

"Did something happen?"

"Don't you ever get restless doctor? I feel like I'm in prison- Oh wait _, I am_!" He laughs mirthlessly. His words strike a chord though, I feel _infinitly_ restless.

"I can imagine a setting like this might get tiresome for a brain like yours. I guess it isn't _always_ a vacation home is it?" I offer sympathetically.  
He sneers and turns away again. Awesome. This is going to do wonders for Leland's opinion of my little project.

"If you could do anything right now, what would it be?" The query is the product of a blind grasp for his attention.

"Well first I'd make myself look presentable. I mean a mug like _this_ _really_ _needs_ _a little makeup_ don't ya think?" I quirk my head. He talks like he's ugly but to be honest his sharp cheekbones and aquiline nose give him a striking profile. The scars…they might be considered disfigurement but really they just add interest. He flips a bit of faded green hair out of his eyes, looking feverish. "Then…I'd come back here. And I'd take our _dear_ Bradley's gun and shoot him in the knees with it." His voice has gotten very quiet. Bradley seems a bit sick. "Then I'd find Officer Pender and make him eat his _tongue_ for dinner. And then…well of course I'd come pay my _dear, sweet_ doctor Quinzel a visit. _HA!_ You get the gist."  
The remark about Bradley was a result of his presence but J seems to have something personal against Pender.

"Last time we spoke, you said violence was fun for you, but its more than that isn't it? It's a reflex."  
The corners of his mouth curl upward.

" _Last time we spoke_ ," he mimics me "I asked you why you don't kill and you said it was because you _couldn't_ , and then you said it's was because you _promised_ not to. Kinda seems like you don't have a good answer."

"Killing is wrong, life is valuable." I sound like a goddamn robot.

"Ahh, now were getting a little closer to the _heart_ of the matter….What is it that makes life _valuable_ Quinzy?"

I know that I _should_ have an answer. I am after all, a psychiatrist; I shoveled money out of my pockets to learn how to tell people that life is worth living. To teach them to live it the right way-and yet I flounder. Despite my intact poker face I've been quiet long enough to let him see me struggle for words, so I force my lips to move without knowing what I'm about to say.

"Interpersonal relationships."

His head whips back and he cackles. I must be _hi_ larious.

"Well look at that! You're not as thick as you act _toots_. I agree, I'm a people person of course- but you already know that." He winks. "What would you consider to be the most important factor in maintaining those...sticky relations?"

"Honesty." I have the distinct impression that I'm playing perfectly into his hand, but I can't help it. I'm right, he lights up like a Christmas tree in June-just as bright and six times as alarming.

"Right you are! Ooh I ought to give you a _gold star_. How lovely! Truth telling, rainbows and lollipops for everyone, right? WRONG." The change in his tone is so sudden and drastic that if I were a lesser psychiatrist, I might take it as evidence of dissociative identity disorder.

"How many interpersonal relationships do you have _dearest_?" He asks.

"I really don't think that's pertinent to our discussion. How many interpersonal relationships do you have?"  
His lips part like a gash.

"Hundreds- _thousands_! I'm an honest to goodness slut aren't I? _Just read the obituaries_!" he punctuates with his trademark 'HA'. "I'm gonna give you a little _relationship tip_ from an _old pro_ : the only time anyone will _really_ be honest with you is when you're about to _end them._ "  
The air suddenly seems a bit low on oxygen.

"Do you want _me_ to be honest with you?" I ask, a little surprised when I actually manage to produce sound.

"I want _everyone_ to be honest with me."

" I think you're over-simplifying."

"Oh really? _Pray tell_."

"There are degrees of honesty. Certain honesties are easy, we tell them because we want to. Some honesties are more difficult and we tell them if we have to- but there's only a few a man will take to his grave, and not everyone has one of those"  
He tilts his head. I can't help seeing it as a puppy-like gesture, but I shove that thought down.

"You're right, of course. But I'm not talking about the kind of honesty you can speak in words. I'm talking about the way a person looks at you when they're _bleeding out_. That's the fourth kind of honesty. That's how you _really_ get to know a guy."  
I think he believes what he's saying... I'm just not sure it's the whole picture.

"Pardon me if I'm being presumptuous, but you don't seem to _like_ people very much. Why would you want to _know_ them?"  
His tongue runs across his lower lip, which is distinctly plumper than its counterpart.

"I might not…like them. But I am _very_ interested in them. You see, violence is doubly rewarding- the act itself and all those _yummy_ endorphins- but the cherry on top is how people _react_ to it."

" You have a real taste for reactions, don't you Mr J?"  
His eyes widen for a millisecond and he savours the moniker as it races through his auditory cortex.  
 _Jackpot Harleen, just keep it up_.  
He scowls but I can tell he likes hearing his chosen name. He just doesn't want to give up the routine he's got going.

"HA! So do _you_ doctor! I mean why else would you look so _self-satisfied_ saying ' _Mistah Jay'_? Did you get special permission from mommy to name he who _must not be named?_ "

"I thought you didn't consider yourself an antagonist- I thought you were just a guy having fun," I say, ignoring the jab at my accent-which, might I add, he was all over last week. It was 'sinfully scrumptious'.

"Oh I don't- but you said it yourself I _love_ a good reaction. And sometimes the best way to get a reaction is to play a role."

"Lots of people play roles."

"True. But not many have the _gusto_ to put on a _heart stopping performance."_

"Does the batman live up to your standards?"

"I was wondering when you'd ask me about the object of my _aggression_. Hmm…" He arranges his features into mock consideration. " _Shitty_ actor, but _soo_ devoted to his role. It almost brings a tear to your eye."

" Yet you've refrained from 'getting to know' him on multiple occasions. There must be something about his performance that you find appealing."

" I miss the bat nipples." He says with smarmy fondness. "Do you remember those? Those were great…I almost thought he was starting to take himself a little less seriously!"  
I want to push him for more but I _just_ got him back in my court.

"Do you remember when he used to just wear a leotard? HA! It was _so_ much _easier_ to get a knife in edgewise... Y'know I take back what I said about coming back to candy land for Bradley's gun. All I want is a few good rounds with the bat. Now that'll put some _fire_ in a man's blood."

"Why don't you finish the game, don't you want to win?"

"Don't you _see_? If he sticks to his _ridiculous_ rules-which he will, like I said, he's _devoted-_ I can't stop winning! _Why_ would I want to mess that up, I mean what could be more interesting than that persona he puts on? Come on! _The Batman_?" He grins twisting his voice into the iconic bat-grumble. "Hilarious! He's _almost_ as funny as me."

" Would you say you start to feel anxious when you haven't… _played_ in a while?"

"Anxiety, my dear, is for _normal_ people. What I feel is _tension."_ He drops into an animal snarl. _" What I feel is an itching under my skin, what I feel is hunger…_ Its enough to make a guy crack! _"_ And just like that he's human again. Almost. I still feel like little red ridding hood.  
This time I don't jump when the timer goes off.

"Thank you for your time today. It's been a pleasure."

"I'm _sure_. " He purrs.

"I'll see you next week."

" Well I'm _certainly_ not going anywhere!"  
After my shift, I ask around a little about officer Pender. Apparently he works the night patrol on the D wing, which just happens to be where my Mr. J resides. _Yahtzee_.  
Now I just need to figure out why J is holding a grudge.  
I take a deep breath when I sit down in my office, melting into my cheap office chair. My phone rings almost immediately, shattering the illusory moment of decompression.

" Hello?"

"Heyy!" It's my sister. I can tell by her casually apologetic tone that she's about to say something she knows I won't like. "Paul and I were talking sweetie, and it's just… it's been a while since you've, y'know had someone around." _Oh no_. " And we know this _really_ great _single_ guy, and-"

" Hold it right there, Lucy. I'm not going on a blind date."

"Well it's not _re_ ally a blind date, I know him, and so does Paul!" _Oooh, well then_ , with an endorsement like that, I don't suddenly hate this idea to its very core.

"No."

"It would be at my house, with Paul and I!" The more often she says Paul the less I want to go.

"No, I can't. I have a lot of work."

"Harleen… mom's worried about you-I'm worried about you! It's not good to be alone all the time…" Lucy you sly devil.

She brought up mom as a threat, she knows mom will unleash a guilt-nami if she finds out I turned down a date. She seems to think I couldn't get one if I tried.

"…So?" Lucy asks after a few second of silence. She already knows the answer. I want to reach through the phone and throttle her.

"Fine."

"Yaaay! Ok, Sunday at the usual time?"

"Yup."

"Okayy, love you!"

"You too Luce."

I hang up. She better not make meatloaf.  
On my way out I stop by the archives and sift through the news footage we have collected on him. I've seen it all before of course, but now…now it's different. I'm excited to see it in a new light.

I shovel caramel popcorn into my mouth as grainy men in clown masks subdue a few guards on the television before me. They chain the entrances to the mall shut and wait, cradling machine guns. The feed switches to a camera just above the mall's courtyard. A crude spotlight flashes on to glare at a man in a purple suit standing on the second floor railing. He lifts an old-timey megaphone to his mouth, but when he clears his throat it plays out over the mall speakers.

"ATTENTION SHOPPERS! Listen up for the BIGGEST black Friday sale YET, Only ONE vial of antitoxin left and it could be YOURS for FREE!" He gestures emphatically, wobbling on the railing in a way that makes my stomach clench. Most of the mass of has stopped to watch him at this point; nervous tremors run through the crowd.  
Some of The Joker's men are clearly visible now, leading more people to the crowd at gunpoint-some of whom were in various stages of undress. They must have been taking people straight from the dressing rooms. A few unfortunate souls try to shove back at the clowns and dry, crackling gunfire rings out. About six people collapse.  
The rest of the crowd has dropped to the ground, many are screaming or crying. I'd be willing to bet a few of them have wet themselves.

"I have to warn you folks, the air quality in here is about to get _real bad_. HA! So here's the deal: " He braces a hand on his thigh, looking down at the kaleidoscope of horrified faces bellow him. "Either you're the last man standing and you get this little bottle-" He pulls the vial from his jacket pinched between two fingers. He makes a show of almost dropping it, and Roars with laughter. " Or you _die choking_ on your own insides as they _turn to liquid."_ There's the animal again. " So… ladies and gentlemen… let the games BEGIN!" Everyone is completely motionless. " What _are_ you waiting for _people_? It's black Friday get in the _spirit_! THE CLOCK IS A' TICKIN'!" Before he pulls down his gas mask and the clowns follow suit, I get a good look at his face- He's a lit stick of dynamite but his eyes speak of _creation_. He's about to become the proud father of a hundred new devils, and he _can't wait_ to let them loose on gotham.  
His fuse burns away millimetre by millimetre and his smile seems to stretch, splitting the skin of his cheeks where it was so crudely knit back together. In that moment, those few seconds before the fighting breaks out, he is at the peak of his restlessness.  
There's a click and 'Material girl' blares sharply from the speakers, echoing dissonantly as it mixes with the screams. The spark reaches the stick and everything goes Kablooey. In the flames, the Joker starts to dance.  
White puffs of gas begin to pour into the room, sinking down from the vents to drape itself over the hoard. People absolutely _panic_.  
At first it's just the wailing, and some scared bastard throws the first punch. The crowd goes wild. Then there's blood and people _really_ lose it. One woman has jabbed a broken off stiletto heel into a man's eye, and a man not far from her has taken a sizable bite out of another man's arm. Some people try to run but they get shot, and the ones that don't reach locked doors and turn on each other.

This is chaos in action.

I get it now; he's forcing these people out of their boxes. He breaks them down until he can shove them out through the cracks, and then they have to look at what's left on the other side. They have to face what moulders under all that human scaffolding  
I know from a clinical perspective how traumatized these people would be, but I can't imagine how I would feel in that situation.  
 _Yes you can_ , says the voice from the gym, _you would lov-_ Shut up _.  
_ I turn off the dvd player and switch to Looney Toonz for a while.  
The thing is I've already seen the rest of the footage, I know how it ends. There was never a toxin. It turned out to be smoke machines he'd stolen from one of the stores. Eventually Batman shows, tossing canisters of knockout gas into the living knot of blood and teeth. But even as they slump the ground, muscles turning to useless sacks, they have already been transformed. Some of them leak blood or tears, but at that point the feed is completely silent. No one screams anymore. Some, some lie in puddles and they just smile. Their eyes follow the batman as he strides towards the laughing man still balanced on the railing.

Even though elmer fudd chases a cross-dressed bunny to the booming sinfonietta of the barber of Sevill, all I can hear over and over is ' _we are living in a material world, and I am a material girl.'_

I'm back in grade 10. I'm pocketing a ticket stub for Silence of the Lambs at the local repertoire theater, and I'm holding hands with a boy named Aiden who wears leather jackets and smokes cigarettes. We sit in the darkened theater watching Anthony Hopkins feed a man his own brain and Aiden puts his arm over my shoulders. I think about how cliché it is but I don't move away. The thing is, somewhere along the way I start to feel something _deep_ inside. It's not like it's the first time I felt _it_ \- I consider myself a modern woman of the early 90's, grrrl power and such.  
Only I'm not expecting to feel it while watching _this_ particular movie.  
Just the same I slide my hand onto Aiden's knee, thinking myself quite suave. He kisses with too much tongue but the screaming that assaults us from the massive theater speakers sends wonderful little shivers down my I guide his fingers under my skirt.

I wake with a hand on my breast and jump-until I realise it's my own. I slump back into the couch, the ache of having slept in such an irregular position bleeding into my awareness _.  
_ _Shut it down girl_ , I think. _Cool your jets. You've already dealt with this Harleen-don't get weird again.  
_ I force myself up to make some coffee. My hands are shaking before I've even started chugging. I need to do _something._ I need to get out of the house. I hunch over my mug, perching on a kitchen chair with my feet tucked under my body. I feel cagey. I could go to the gym but I don't want to snap at Bob or end up maiming his nephew. I could call Ash but she wasn't a great distraction last time…  
I think about how I must crouched on this chair like it's a roof-top gargoyle… _like I'm batman_.I laugh and the notes hang in the empty air like dirty laundry. I wonder how it must feel to do what he does, to leap and sore over this city, to dive and not even consider the ground. And then I stand, and I march into my closet.  
 _It won't be that different from what you do at Bob's_. It's just a different kind of playground. Right?

I pull on a hoodie and a pair of legging, strapping into my Nikes, and because I feel like I'm doing something at least little illicit, I snatch a bandana and stuff it into my pocket.  
 _You're being ridiculous Harleen._

I am nothing but an observer as I lock my apartment and enter the stairwell. If only because I don't want to think about what I'm about to do, I pop in my ear buds and scroll numbly. _Anything but Madonna_. My legs take me all the way up and when I get to the maintenance door that leads onto the roof, I pull out a bobby pin and I pick the lock- turns out it's just like riding a bike.

I'm not _really_ aware of anything until I'm standing on the edge, and even over Pat Benatar's battlefield wail, I can hear the hammering of my own heart. I take a few good steps back and sink into a runner's set.  
 _Hold up_ -what the _hell_ do I think I'm doing?  
I don't have time to answer myself before I'm running, sneakers pounding the cement surface. The gap yawns wider the closer I get, and then I'm back at the edge and I'm kicking off- I'm _flying_.  
I tuck my body and roll, watching the ground pass by _so far_ below me, before stretching out again to brace for impact when my dive ends on the adjacent roof. My hands make contact, and I collapse in on myself, rolling again. I spring to my feet and pump my fists into the air with a little joy leap.

" _YEAH!_ " The moment I hear my own voice I feel silly, and more than a little off kilter. That was really stupid, but I did it-and I did it _well_. Now, with epinephrine gushing into my bloodstream from my excited adrenal glands, I can feel every hair on my body pricking to attention. I hastily tie the bandana over my nose and mouth and I take off again.

I focus on acquainting myself with this new barrage of equipment. I push myself to risk larger jumps, I try jumping from one building to the side of another, I work until my palms bleed and I resolve to get a good pair of gloves. My IPod dies and darkness falls like a racing flag, but I don't notice either as I leap frog over an air duct, dropping down to a balcony, and then vault across the expanse to latch on to the rail of the opposite balcony.  
Thing is, I undershoot.  
My sneakers scrabble for purchase on the weathered brick. I'm not quite breathing because for a few second I'm holding my entire body weight with the tips of my fingers and there is _nothing_ between my bones and the concrete hundreds of feet below. I think they're about to break when I catch sight of the drainpipe running vertically to my left, and swing over in a wild hail Mary. Swearing and praying, I manage to grip on and though the pipe groans I shimmy like my life depends on it-which it does. The groan becomes a pronounced screech and my world lurches to the side but I'm so close I can see the edge.  
I squint my eyes shut and I throw myself.  
My arms meet _sweet_ , _sweet_ solid roof and I haul myself up before further disaster can strike.  
As my engine cools, I lay down on my back, momentarily too weak to blink an eye. A strange sort of butterfly riot starts in my stomach; the tiny feet and fluttering wings ascend, bursting from my mouth in unhampered floods of laughter. I clutch my stomach, howling alone, on this roof, after almost having died.  
But In a strange way I feel calm. A calm I haven't felt in so long I didn't even remember what it was.

I don't crawl back into bed until about 3:45 am, my muscles quaking involuntarily as I pull off my sweaty clothes and fall into what might as well be a coma. I wake feeling _rested_ , whistling as I flip my bacon, and when I pour my coffee my hands are perfectly steady.  
Did I _really_ do that last night? I chuckle nervously.  
I know it was reckless and immature. It was probably trespassing at some points- not to mention I almost made Harley-cakes with the ground-but I haven't felt this good in a long time. I feel _powerful_ , I feel _alive_ , I feel- I almost sprint to my bedroom, flinging the door shut behind me even though I live alone. After a mad search and a fruitless click, I'm running to the store for triple-A batteries and when I get back there's nothing between me, and a little quality time with my B.O.B.  
Its only when I'm sprawled afterwards, sweating and euphoric that I remember my blind date.  
 _Well shit._

The cutlery sounds much too loud against our plates. I called it by the way- meatloaf. It feels like wet particleboard in my mouth. _The guy_ , is named Tanner. He wears a sweater vest. He's a financial advisor, but I'm not sure to whom because I stopped listening.  
For my part, I did try to make myself look appropriate. I saw my sister nod approvingly at my cardigan, as though that's a sign of wholesome character. Or maybe she just thought it mean I'd be receptive to Tanner's sweater vest. Turns out Tanner likes to talk a _lot_ \- incessantly, and almost exclusively about himself. I can practically hear my brain cells begging for mercy ans in the first 30 minutes he _still_ has not gotten around to asking me a single question. When he finally shuts up to shovel some food into his mouth, my sister turns to me with an expression of thinly veiled panic-which, to her credit _does_ make me smile.

"How has your week been sweetie?" She asks, having collected herself enough for another attempt to bail out this sinking ship.

"Pretty good up until now." I say. I'm so done with this entire situation that I now just want to make my sister uncomfortable for having created it.  
Tanner coughs. I smile. "I actually think I've made some progress with my new patient- I mean relative to his old psychiatrists. This could be really big."

"Where do you work?" Asks Tanner glancing at his watch, as if he's planning to time my answer.

"Arkham Asylum. I'm a _psychiatrist_." I boast with some delight, even though he made me repeat myself. I think I sound pretty badass.  
Tanner just looks a bit repulsed.

"Who's the patient Harleen?" Asks Paul, piping up in his oddly pitched voice.

"She can't talk about it Paul! It's illegal!" Squawks Lucy, rolling her eyes.  
She looks pretty smug, thinking herself to have avoided an icky conversation. I raise my eyebrows.

"Actually, the Joker has made it _very_ clear that he wants _all_ ofhis psychiatric files on public record."  
My sister chokes on her mashed potatoes.

" _That's_ who this _great_ new patient is? Seriously? That guy's a _monster_ Harleen, why the hell would you wanna work with _him_ \- mom's not gonna like this at all."  
Lucy is all Bronx indignation and bluster. Paul, to his credit looks a bit excited about my patient, but he won't venture an opinion now.

"Jesus Christ Lucy-" My sister gasps at the lords' name- which I happen to have quite _purposefully_ taken in vain. " We're not kids anymore. And I'm _good_ at my job, I'm equipped to work with…men like _him_."

"Well, call me _crazy_ ," says Tanner, looking around for effect. "but I just don't think a _pretty young girl_ like you should be working with _creeps_ like him."  
I go completely red. My sister on the other hand goes white, as if I stole all her color. I imagine my butter knife plunging into Tanners eye socket, and am reminded of that terrified woman in the video with her stiletto heel leucotome.

"First of all _Tanner,"_ I hiss, "you could actually stand to learn a few things from Mr. J- _manners_ for example-" I'm not sure if I mean that or if I'm just that angry. "Second, I really don't have time for men who think a 'pretty young girl' can't handle herself around a few _creeps_. I think _your_ presence tonight has proven that point."

I stand, and nod at him. "It's been _absolutely dreadful_ meeting you, Tanner. I sincerely hope I never see you again."

" _Bitch."_ He mumbles. I smirk.  
My sister looks like a fish out of water.

"Thanks for the meatloaf sis, and Paul-I hope you get to have sex sometime this year buddy." It comes out in a rush like a giggle, and then I'm practically running out the door.  
I dive into my car like Lucy is going to come after me with a Molotov, and almost end up burning rubber in my haste to get away.

 _That was bad_. That was _reeaaally_ bad. _I broke a rule_. Mom is going to _decimate_ me and Lucy's probably in the market for a bone saw, but do I care? _Not right now_. That was _fun_.

 _"Rules are like viruses, they multiply and spread until you forget that they're really just suggestions …"_


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes** : I've decided to play with the idea of using Eddie as a sort of mirror for Harleen- he sort of reflects parts of herself back to her and shows her what she doesn't want to be ( I hope that makes sense). Also just to clarify, that doesn't mean I don't love me some riddler, but he has some massive control issues and my harley is getting tired of feeling like she has to control herself all the time. It's possible that I wrote a little much for his part, but I enjoyed exploring his story so I decided just to include it, and as always I will be happy to hear your thoughts!

In reference to the creative license comment about Manson Girl Susan Atkins, she wrote 'pig' on the door of a victims home in blood.

Thanks again to everyone reading and reviewing, you guys are the bomb diggity!

 **CHAPTER 3: Harleen Holmes, P.I.**

On Monday I use my lunch to trail Officer Pender out on his smoke break, stowing my I.D badge and glasses and hoping he'll think I'm someone's secretary. I burst through the doors with a sob and Pender looks over with a start. I do my best doe eyed gasp when I see him, then look away, wrapping my arms around myself and letting out another little whimper.  
His heavy boots crush the fallen leaves behind me.

"Hey…You ok?"  
He awkwardly places a hand on my shoulder. I sniffle.

"M-my boyfriend and I just broke up-" I sob again, tapering off. "I'm sorry, but could you distract me for a minute, Officer…?"

Pender's eyes widen and he blushes.

"It's Pender –but you can call me Joe." He rushes. "How can I uh…distract you m'am?"

I know what he's thinking, and it's intentional. I need to set him just a little _off-balance._

"I don't know, um…" I wring my hands in a helplessly anxious way. "Tell me about your job?"

"Oh! Um, well I used to work the night shift down in D- wing. But now I mostly work in B."

"Why the move?"

" They just do that sometimes."

 _No they don't._

"Hey…D wing-isn't that high security? Don't they keep the _Joker_ there?" I use my sister as inspiration for the proceeding expression of scandalized distaste.

Pender pales.

"Yeah uh-he's _notthatbad_." Lie number two. And not even a _good_ one.

He looks around apprehensively, he's scared. Likely for his life.  
 _I'm speaking to a dead man_. The thought crawls into my consciousness like a hoard of maggots. I feel oddly hollow.  
Hollow Harleen.  
My phone rings and I turn my back to Pender, switching off the alarmed timer I had set and putting the phone to my ear.

"I don't have time for whatever _bullshit_ you're toting _this time_ Kyle, but I _already_ told you, I'm fucking _done_ with you-I DON'T CARE IF IT 'DIDN'T' MEAN ANYTHING, YOUR DICK DIDN'T JUST _POOF!_ AND APPEAR INSIDE HER." I screech into my inactive phone, striding briskly to the doors, and leaving Pender nothing but a fleeting sense of his own incompetence with the opposite sex and an unfortunate reminder of that looming threat.

I rush back to my office so I can actually eat something, but my mind is running a million miles a minute and I can barely taste my food. J's escapes have been too elaborate for him not to have men on the inside, so I wouldn't be surprised if Pender was supposed to do a job for him or something- maybe things got a little out of hand? All I've really done here is confirm that J has something against Pender, and that Pender's smart enough to be scared.  
It's a start though. I need to comb through the footage from the past month and see if I can catch anything.  
For now I'll settle with inhaling half a turkey sandwich before racing off to my next session.

Eddie's eyes are a bit glassy and he stares into his hands like he sees something repulsive in his palms. His jumpsuit and canvas slip-on's are tidy and his mousy brown hair, though grown out has been pushed back with some efficiency. His black horn-rimmed glasses slide down his nose and his pushes them up with a sigh.

"My mother bought me this hat for my birthday-a deerstalker hat, like Sherlock Holmes." His brown eyes brighten." Did you know that the Holmes character was based off of a professor that Arthur Conan Doyle had in medical school? So 'House' is a show about a doctor based on a book series about a detective based on a doctor. Isn't that odd?"

"How annular. What about the hat Eddie?" I ask, nudging him back on to the right track. He frowns.

"Right, Um, it was for my birthday. I felt so _lucky_ that she _remembered_ it at all that I didn't care if the hat was my whole celebration." He speaks as if he's just swallowed a mouthful of Buckley's. "So she put it on and she shoved me out the door. Told me to go play. She didn't listen when I told her I didn't get along with the other _children._ I found them boring, I told her they didn't understand me but she still told me to _run a long_ , to go find my _little friends_." His nostrils flare as he speaks, mouth pressing down into a crumpled line.

"So I wandered alone down our street in the twilight. I passed those _little friends_ playing ball hockey. They called me _names_ ; they made fun of my hat!" He exclaims with some indignity. "And then _Tommy Jerven_ aimed a slapshot at my forehead. They _laughed_ at me for crying when my face started to _bleed_. Asked me why my dad never taught me to be a _man_." The word is acid on his tongue. "I wasn't going to tell them it was because he skipped out. I noticed that the little G.I Joe keychain Tommy usually had hanging from his belt was _absent_. So this time I stared at his shoes. I didn't want to look at their faces. I didn't want to _see_ how much they hated me-I used to care!" He mocks himself, like it was a ridiculous notion.

"Eventually the streetlights came on, and mothers started to stick their heads out front doors, yelling for one kid or another to come in for dinner. Except for mine. My mom was just starting her evening shift." In spite of the anger he clearly has for his mother, there is a tired sort of sympathy when he says this. And then his eyes clear and the anger is back to focus him.

"They left me sitting like _garbage_ on the sidewalk, trying _so hard_ to hold back all that _shame_ as my blood dripped between my fingers. Usually I would go home just to keep up appearances, make it look like there was _someone_ waiting for me too. But that night it was too late, and the jackals had seen the feathers I broke falling out of my nest. Did you know a jackal only has three natural predators? One of them is the eagle." _  
I get it Eddie, you're the eagle.  
_ "Anyways, I kept walking around. I wasn't ready to go back to my empty home" He has not broken the sterility of his voice; his words do not lurch any closer to the story than he has before, but behind his glasses little bits of exterior come unglued from the scaffolding. "I think I was about to start crying again when I saw Tommy's cat Jinx."  
The animosity he feels towards himself is tangible, and I wonder if he feels that his vulnerability is an invitation for persecution.  
"I always _liked_ her, so at first I felt even worse when I noticed she wasn't moving. Then I remembered I was still wearing the hat, and so by the power vested in me by my mother and Sherlock Holmes, I swore I would solve the mystery of Jinx's death. I took out my Swiss army knife and I got to work." He sighs. "Tommy's dad found me rummaging through his pet's digestive tract as he drove past me on his way home, and assumed the worst. He burst out of his Toyota _screaming_ at me, calling me a little _psycho_. I tried to explain that I was going to help Jinx, but he just kept calling me a _sick little fuck_. I didn't know what he was saying but I knew it was bad, especially coming from an adult- they were usually the only people that tolerated me. Or maybe they were just usually better at _hiding_ how much they hated me. So I ran as fast as Hydron from a proton party-or a _bat_ out of hell. Either way the Jerven's told the whole neighbourhood. How they came after my mother and I- they may as well have been carrying _pitchforks_." Every word he spits is dirty now; he hates each and every one. "So we had to move. My mother resented me for it, but she looked at me differently. Like I was a pill and she didn't know if I was Aspirin or Arsenic _._ The worst part is I solved it, I _had_ to."

"You solved what?"

"The murder of Jinx the cat, of course. I found Tommy's keychain. It had perforated Jinx's oesophagus " _Oh god_. "See pica is common in cats, but Jinx could never have swallowed that toy on her own. It had been _shoved_ down her throat."

" You must have felt very frustrated."

" That's an understatement. They made me think I was a _monster._ My mother wouldn't listen to me when I tried to tell her the truth. I'm still the only one who knows who the _real_ monster is." Eddie's shoulders are hunched, his arms crossed tight across his chest like safety bars.

"How did your mother's mistrust make you feel towards her?"

"My mother is too _stupid_ and self-centered to have competently parented the most _average_ child-let alone _me_. I feel nothing toward her. " He hides behind his barricade of logic, like it's his favourite blanket and he's afraid there's a monster in the closet. But I can see rage like a fresh oil burn just beneath the surface. He might be the only one who believes his lies.

"Eddie, the way those people treated you was inexcusable. You didn't deserve to be vilified-despite your actions being unusual for a child of that age, they were not malicious. And it seems like you rightfully still feel that rage very strongly. What can end your life, but melts under a breath of air?"

"A straight razor." He barks.

I nod, still smiling and he softens ever so slightly.

"You can't shave with a rusty razor. But you can polish it up, clean off the rust; you don't have to throw it out. You don't have to keep carrying this anger Eddie, it's slowing you down."

He laughs bitterly.

"So what, I'm supposed to forgive her? I'm supposed to forgive _them?_ Be the _better_ man? I don't need to forgive anything doctor. Because I. Dont. _Care_. "

"I'm not saying that you should forgive- just that it might be time to leave her in the past. Think of what you could do if you didn't have this dragging you down! It gets in the way of your brain when you question yourself, when you waste time proving yourself to someone who doesn't deserve a second thought."

As I speak, Eddie's lips press into a hard crease that divides his face into fractions along with the troubled crest of his brow bone. His pain is so apparent that it slices into me and I wish I could take his face and force it to a mirror. He's already shut down though; the other guy is tugging on the reins though he hasn't spoken in a while.

"There's nothing dragging me down but the imbeciles I work with." Eddie grumbles. His eyes dart around the room, landing anywhere but my face.

I leave the session feeling keyed up. Eddie might not want to listen to my professional advice, but maybe _I_ should.

Given the no doubt vicious messages from Lucy and mom clogging up my voicemail box, it might be just the right time to take some space from my family. I mean why _do_ I faithfully show up to these dreaded Sunday dinners? Why do I dress up for my sister and lie for my mother? They don't like _me_ , they like an idea of me, and I don't want to be caught up in that anymore. I am going to live my life just a little more _untethered._

After work, I continue to scour the film of Mr J's cell from the last month. He does a lot of pacing, more reading, more talking to himself to disturb onlookers. I'm starting to think this is a dead end. Pender has passed a ridiculous number of times without incident.

But then J starts twirling, marching around, gesturing as if he still has his cane. He appears to be giving a passionate address to thin air. I rewind and watch it over at normal speed.

There is absolutely no one there. Is he having a hallucination? Possible… seems improbable that he would have them frequently-unless he's just that good at hiding them...

I jump when a guard lunges into the frame from the left side, grabbing at the Joker through the bars. Yahtzee! Finally some action, and a blind spot to boot! J moves so quickly I don't even catch the moment he gets his hands around the guy's throat. Then he's laughing, and he's smiling _so_ sweetly, talking to the man who struggles vehemently but eventually he rag dolls when unconsciousness looms.

J looks sharply to the right- the guards must be coming. He releases the man, who falls onto his back, his head lolling on his neck like a giant baby. Surprise, surprise, it's none other than Pender. My patient has his hands up and a great big smile on his face by the time two more guards show up, checking their shift mate before entering the cell. J says something no doubt to spur them on and one of them wrenches his arms behind his back while the other begins to beat him in the stomach and legs with his Billy club- so the bruises wouldn't be visible? Did these _idiots_ forget about the _cameras?_ He cackles the whole time, but it's obvious that the beating would be _agony_ and I feel quite vexed on his behalf.

Forget the fact that this happened in the first place-why didn't I _hear_ about it, and why weren't these guards punished? If this is how they're treated before and after sessions, it's no wonder my patients have trouble opening up to me! I check the timestamp on the file. It dates to just after midnight, a few days before our last meeting.

He wasn't just _restless_ , he was feeling personally scorned.

I head out at around 9:30 to stalk strangers from the rooftops. I tell myself its practice-although I don't know for what. My heart isn't in it though, I'm still so busy thinking that I lose several people before they reach their destinations, so I eventually give up.

On Tuesday morning I drive into Arkham early. The world seems more expansive in its pre-dawn blackness, and the ride down the wooded road leading to the asylum is strangely meditative. The parking lot is nearly empty, but people will start arriving soon, so my pace is swift. I zip through security, having palmed my I.D card on the walk from my car, and I head for the records office. Grace, the elderly woman who works here isn't in yet.  
Luckily, a _certain someone_ has clearance.

I enter the room and blindly swipe at the wall for the light switch. Dust motes scatter when cast into relief, as I'd caught them unawares. I quickly scan through my meagre collection of procedure request forms, and it doesn't take long to find the one I didn't write: electroconvulsive therapy procedure ordered for Patient #0801 by doctor Harleen Quinzel on October 19th- a day after the altercation. My signature is right there in front of my eyes in black ink.

I don't think I've _ever_ ordered electroshock- not that it hasn't produce results in some extreme cases, but usually it's used in attempt to alleviate severe suicidal behaviour. In case it isn't obvious, Mr J hasn't been anywhere near suicidal. Honestly, if it wouldn't cause a small bureaucratic war I would push to have him taken off the meds entirely. Nothing _really_ seems to have much effect besides heavy tranquilizers- and even those are like pez to him half the time. He's either 100% on, or he's completely off. He'd probably say it's because a joke isn't funny without the punch line.

I snap a picture of the file with my cell and put it back in its place, an itchy heat creeping across my chest and up my neck as I lock up behind me. That procedure wasn't a treatment- it was a _punishment_. He may be an inmate but he's also a patient, and either way is this how we treat the incarcerated? Like Skinner's pigeons? That itching won't subside and I scratch at the psychosomatic manifestations of my disgust. The worst part is I can't say anything about it- I don't have the reputation or the connections to take on an institution like this, and I know it. I would be a joy buzzer in a gunfight- not even one of J's joy buzzers, just a normal one. I could go try to find more cases like this and bring them to a reporter…but in this city, I don't think anyone would care. Not to mention it would likely get traced back to me.

You can't just treat a person like a _lab animal_ in a place like this though- no matter who that person is or what they've done. This is supposed to be an _asylum_. Not an evil dungeon, for god's sake.

Inflamed, I throw open the door to my office, and slam it with unwarranted force behind me. I tell myself the outburst is ok because no one is here yet, but I'm still worried that someone heard.

And that makes me _angry_.

Why do I fight and pretend, why do I put on this _face_ and craft my speech with the caution of an architect? _Why do I keep my mouth shut?_ The simple answer, the one that voices itself, is that I _have_ to. If I don't I won't be taken seriously. If I fight this, I'll be thrown out like one of last night's floozies. I will lose my job, and my cash flow and-well, sadly that's it. That's all I really _have_ isn't it?

The complicated answer, the one that hides beneath the surface, slipping out of reach like a bit of lint in the bathwater, is that I have _chosen to_.

I don't like _that_ answer, not one bit.

So like a child, I swipe the "happy graduation" teddy bear Lucy gave me after commencement off my desk. The bear hits my bookcase, knocking a potted plant off its shelf and sending it hurtling to the ground. I glare at the fractionated ceramics poking out of the soil and mangled plant matter as if it has insulted me personally.  
 _Ok Harleen, you have 1 minute to kick the plant, and then you have to put on your face for the day._

I find Leland during a break between appointments on Wednesday. She didn't know anything about J and Pender, I can tell by the combination of sympathy and annoyance in her countenance. She begrudgingly promises to ask Dr. Zadd about it.  
She'll definitely ask, and he'll lie and nothing will change. The world is _stagnant._

I stumble home from the roofs much later that night, having worked my self to the bone once again. At least I have gloves now. It hurts like a bitch every time, and I curse myself each morning when I wake up with stiff legs that fight me in Arkham's numerous stairwells. Still, I keep going. I push myself harder when the strain starts to slacken, because lately, its feels like the only time I'm _moving_ is when I'm at the end of my leash.

But I'm excited to see him. _He_ is a moving person.

I get the bright idea to meet him at his cell so we can walk together to the Interview room-it's a perfect opportunity to check out that blind spot. I don't really think it will tell me anything useful, but I want to feel productive.

As I descend flight after flight into the bowels of the building, it ages, drywall turning to smooth cut stone. The lighting takes a turn for the creepy, ancient, buzzing bulbs hanging in metal cages from the ceiling that do little to banish the shadows.

It strikes me that I am entering _his_ territory, this is a place he knows. Our previous meetings have purely been in a therapeutic context, but this is completely unstructured; this…might be a little bit stupid.  
 _Does it really matter?_

I take a few deep breaths just outside the door to his cellblock before I signal the guard to buzz me through. The moment I set foot past the metal detectors, I become too aware of the sound of my footsteps. I spend a second trying to figure out what a 'confident walk' sounds like before realizing how silly that is. The guard pacing the hallway gives me an odd look as I pass.

Most of the inmates are silent. Some leer, and some ignore me completely. These are the _dangerous_ ones, the ones we have on 24-hour watch. _He_ used to get an hour of time in the yard with some of the other inmates, but I wouldn't be surprised if they restricted that after what happened with Pender. I'd be even less surprised if they artfully neglected to notify me of the fact.

 _Honestly_ , it's like trying to run a cross-country marathon on a treadmill.

Despite my currently grim outlook, I feel somewhat heartened when a clump of grassy hair and a white nose poke out between the bars of the furthest cell.

"Do my eyes _deceive_ me?" He booms. "Or is the lovely Doctor Quinzel, gracing us _here_? My _good lady_ , what _the devil_ has gotten into you?" He queries in a plummy accent.

"I've decided to start visiting my patients where they feel a certain degree of…domain. I think it might help strengthen the therapeutic relationship." Yeah, I know it's a weak excuse, I'm almost quoting a first year textbook.

When I reach him, He straightens, suddenly seeming much larger than ever before. I realize it's the first time I've seen him without his straightjacket. His fingers, gripping the bars, are like tree branches, slender, graceful but knobbed at the joint, and painted with ice. The sleeves of his jumpsuit are rolled up to the elbow, revealing the long, taut musculature of his forearms, and a few prominent veins.

I swallow, and then remember why I'm here, locating the camera across from his cell. What interests me more is the peculiar way the ceiling juts out from the wall in a rectangle on the left side. I pace over to stand by the column beneath it. His eyes follow me with keen interest the whole way.

"Well, you haven't visited _Eddie_ yet," He giggles. "- Am I your first? _Oh_ doctor, I'm _flattered_."

I hope he's bluffing, because the idea that he and Ed have been talking about me makes me want to hurl.

"How are you?" I ask, If only to change the subject.

" _Meee?_ " He draws out the word, splaying those long white fingers against his chest and exaggerating a beguiled expression. "Why, _thank you_ for asking!" He laughs, throwing his hands in the air. "I'm glooorious, I'm sublime, I'm just _mad with delight!_ " As he orates, he takes smooth strides toward me. He's milking the moment for theatrics, but he _is_ alarmingly happy today. His hands dart and flick at shoulder height like a conductor's. "But Doc- why the long face? If laughter's the best medicine, you must be _terminally ill_!"

Of course He can tell. He wouldn't be a very good clown if he couldn't read the room.

"…It's been a rough week."

That lower lip pokes out for my benefit.

" _Uh-Oh_! And _I_ heard all it takes is _one bad day!"_ His laughter is peeling and unpredictable. "What's bubbly, red, and taps on the glass?"

"What?" I'm still worrying about He and Eddie and their play dates.

"A baby in a microwave."

"HA!" I clap my hand over my mouth in total shock- that sound came from _me_.

His head torques to the side, smile popping out like it had been spring loaded. I drop my hand, feeling quite conspicuous and _very_ guilty. He props fisted hands on his hips, exuding the gratified cavalier of a toddler. Despite the thought of how horrible it was to laugh at that, a contrite smile tries to force my dimples. I bite my cheeks to contain it.

" _There_ , that's _much_ better! I really have no taste for upside down smiles, you know. And either way, your week _can't_ have been as bad as Tommy's."

"Who's _Tommy_?"

"The bubbly baby!" The words erupt from him like he can't wait to see me breathe them in and when he laughs, I can't help the nervous giggle that slips out. I glance apprehensively at the guard, who has stopped his pacing and is watching us with leery inquisition.

"You're _one sick puppy_ , aren't ya _blondie?_ " His tone is tinted to a more sinister hue, and suddenly he's gripping the bars again, pressing his face between them. Those lunatic eyes stretch wide. "I mean, first that _glorious_ little anecdote about the _kitty cat_ , and now we're throwing out the baby with it's liquefied remains? What _will_ we do next?"

I don't really want to consider that.

Officer Bradley chooses this moment to walk through the door to the block, and I shoot him a thankful smile for his timing. He seems wary of my presence, but tries to play it off like it's nothing unusual, and I appreciate that.

"You ready for a stroll?" I ask.

J drops his hands and steps back when Bradley and the block guard approach.

"A _long_ one? On the beach? In the sunset- _with the candlestick?_ " He giggles, "Those are my _favourite_."

"Hands where I can see em' inmate!" Barks the block guard, and then signals for the cell to be unlocked when J flourishes his hands. The electronic lock clicks, and the door begins to grind open. Both guards have their Billy clubs at the ready, and they enter the cell with tensed, cautious motion like they're afraid he might decide to have them for a pre-stroll snack.

" _Ah,_ finally, my ladies in waiting! Where _have_ you been? You know I can't get dressed _all by my lone_ some!" He chirps, gleefully slipping into the straightjacket like it's a well-loved suit. The men jerk the straps tight and fasten them behind his back, visibly relaxing as the block guard kneels to manacle his ankles.

"Want to shine my shoes while you're down there?" He giggles.

The block guard leads their procession out of the cell with J behind him and Bradley holding the chain at his back.

"Umm- you might want to keep your distance Ma'am. He's uh…been known to bite." Mutters Bradley, quite abashed, and maybe a little scared to give me a directive. The biter in question gnashes his teeth with gusto. Though I can see the power packed into each myocyte, the restraint that he demonstrates each time he chooses _not_ to maul any given person, backing away would be waving a white flag.

So, as he saunters down the hall towards the exit, I take my place at the Joker's side.

We pass through the metal detectors without incident.

"Oooh, cartoons!" He exclaims, squishing his face against the window of the guard booth to see inside as we go by. He then huffs, looking away with marked disdain. "I always preferred the _original family guy_. Charles Manson had a _much_ better sense of humor."

"I liked the part where Polanski was _casually_ out of town." My response is a bit quicker than intended.

The fact that his chest puffs makes me feel a little lightheaded.

"That _was_ pretty funny." His voice rumbles in his chest before he releases it. We step into the elevator and Bradley inserts his key card before jabbing our button with a meaty finger. "Can ya guess my favourite Manson Girl?" He says it like they're a pop band.

"Hmmm…Susan Atkins?"

"And why is that?" He chuckles duskily.

I press my lips to clothe a smile. I don't want to freak Bradley out more than I already have. The less gossip the better.

"… _Artistic licence."_ I say, and then grin anyways, despite my efforts to the contrary.  
 _Damn it Harleen._

"Close, _you frosty little cupcake_ , but no cigar!"

"Well who is it then?" I blurt, throwing up my hands. _  
Maybe you DO have ants in your pants!_

" _Afton Burton_. She tried to marry him for his corpse! _Gotta_ _lo_ ve a woman with some _vision_."

The elevator shudders to a halt and make a sad little dissonant 'ding' as the doors croak open.

"LLLadies first!" He says it like a drumroll and I giggle before pinching my thigh in a flurried attempt at self-conditioning as I step out into the psychiatric wing. He follows with an exaggerated step-to, and then sidles up to me, the space between us pressing my back against the wall.

" _Ooh_ -I almost _forgot!_ " his intonation says he most _certainly_ did not. As Bradley exits the elevator, he tentatively reels our charge back on his leash, and I try not to show just how suddenly my breath had caught.

" Guess who got his hands on just the most _delicious_ bit of gossip- Oh alright, _it was me!_ Want to know what I _heard_ doc _?"_ He inquires, moonwalking back to Bradley, who seems pretty tired of this kind of behaviour.

" I'm guessing you'll tell me either way." I reply, having adequately composed myself. We make our way to the interview room and I open the door for Bradley and him.

"Right you are!" The clown gibes as he ambles into the room, leaning back to force the disgruntled security officer to bear the brunt of his weight. "See, I heard that little old _you"_ He tips his head at me, a few longer strands of hair crossing to flop over the other side of his part. "Wrote a very lengthy _fairy tale_ about little old _me-_ I'm just so _very_ flattered." he laughs like he's been waiting to tell this joke all day, and I don't know why, but I feel embarrassed-like he found out I wrote a love note about him instead of a thesis. I use the process of taking my seat to avoid meeting his derisive smirk.

"You're an interesting man, a lot of people have written about you." My response is a little too firm, a little too prompt.

He drops into his chair; kicking his legs up like a can-can dancer to settle them into a crossed position. He bats his eyelashes in a display of flamboyant bashfulness.

" Oh _stop_ it! You'll make me _blush_." The way he says it makes me think _I'm_ blushing. _Am_ I blushing? I take a subtle peek in the two-way mirror behind him. _Shit_. Even under the green hued light of the room, I am totally blushing. And I thought I had that under control- this shouldn't even be an issue in the first place!

He looks at me, pearly whites on full display. It's a smile that's just a fraction of an inch from being a snarl. He's got me on his puppet strings, and he's chosen to make me squirm.  
I need to remind him that I'm not made of wood and screws.

"You know it wasn't quite as _entertaining_ as the other ones. They all wrote such _lovely_ stories- child abuse, incest and bears, oh my!" He continues after a smug pause.

"I wasn't trying to write a _story_."

"No." He says with some gravity. "You _aren't_. Y'know, I think I like that about you. You're not really like the other doctors, you're not _one of them_. You had to work too hard, and this all feels _so_ much more _valuable_ to you, doesn't it?" He's gotten as close as he can on his chain; he's practically hanging off it. The room feels tiny and I forget that Bradley is there as every hair on my body stands on end. My vision seems to tunnel.

"All of that hard work got me to the same place in the end, and I'm a better doctor for it."

" _Oh I agree_. But that still doesn't make you _like_ them. Let me guess, Brooklyn? It's an easy accent to place. Doesn't mean much unless you add in the plain Jane clothes, the lack of makeup, and the _no nonsense attitude_ \- I mean come on, you want to talk about defense mechanisms?" He says out of the corner of his mouth, as if in an aside to the audience. "Put all that together, what do you get? You get a little girl from Brownsville- maybe coney? Either way you've always been just a little bit _off._ Your intelligence made you isolated, I mean kids can be _so cruel-_ even if you could fight you're no bigger than a minute. And at home you were a black sheep- I bet you thought it would be ok if you could just get to university. But your folks didn't have the money for school-" he giggles. "Or maybe they just didn't _care_. Either way you worked for it. Were you a Wendy's girl? You look like a Wendy's girl. _Anyways_ , as I was saying you worked and then when you got there, when you had _finally_ paid those dues, they didn't think you were _smart enough_. Am I right?"

It hits like a hatchet. Why don't you dress up Harleen, I think. _Because they wont take you seriously_. Why do you act like a bitch Harleen? _Because you have to fight to keep the place that you deserve, and you have to fight every damn day just because you have boobs and a decent face. How is that fair?_

"They took one look at those pretty baby blues, and the moment you opened your mouth you weren't _good_ _enough_." He shakes his head like it's the saddest thing he's ever heard. " I've got bad news for you _baby doll_ : All of 'this' is still the playground; your colleagues are just bratty kids. They still want the rules, _they_ need them. Maybe not the kind of rules you'll find written down, but the kind that can get you places if you talk the right way, if you wear the right things and you know the right people… _if you are expected._ If ya don't _fit_ they get _scared_. And scared people are _stupid_ people, but they can be _very useful_ if you know where to _point_ _them_. I think YOU-" I'm sure he would jab a finger at me if he could. "are too smart for this. I don't think you need these rules, I don't even think you _want them."_

I shut my useless mouth, thinking I must look like a blow up doll with it hanging open. I've been flayed. He's done it. I want to disagree with him, assert my normalcy-but that's not what _normal_ people do is it? _They_ don't have to. I'm not _like_ him, I tell myself. _He's just messing with you Harleen._

"Actually it was McDonalds." I know its a weak retaliation but its the only thing I can think of. Even worse, I worked at Wendy's for three years.

"What a _disappointment_." His voiced is honeyed and smoky. The tilt of his head says ' _Sure, sweet stuff, whatever you say'_. He knows I'm lying. He thinks it's hilarious that I care enough to do so. "That McDork is a cheap imposter." He spits "You know I once took him hostage? I tried to make him eat Mayor McCheese but the Batsy-patsy showed up and _rained all_ over that parade." He huffs. "You should have seen him sweep ole' Ronald off his feet though, now _that_ was a thing of _beauty_. Such heroism, _such chivalry-_ I was almost jealous!" He flies off the handle in a fit of laughter.

"Did _you_ feel isolated as a child?" I ask, wrestling to turn the conversation on him.

"Oh yes, that _must_ be it. I'm definitely _just projecting_ , you've solved it doc! I feel _much better_ …. By the way I have one last bit of gossip, _Harleen_."

He makes my given name sound like a dirty secret. He'd saved it until now, he wanted to make me feel vulnerable, and if his monologue was the wind up, my name was the pitch. I'd say it hit home.

"I'd love to meet your parents little _Harlee-quin,_ seems like they have a real _wacky_ sense of humour- seriously, Harleen Quinzel? _HA!_ Can I call you Harley Quinn? Its got such a nice _ring_ to it, don'tcha think?"

I ignore the hint of possession in his tone when he says that name. It scares me, like it should- _right_? When the corners of my mouth turn down I know that I've forced it.  
 _T_ _hats_ what really scares me.

"Would giving me a nickname help you feel more in control of the situation?"

"No, I just like imagining you in a little jester costume." He purrs, and my skin heats in seconds.

"I think you crave control just as much as you crave violence." I snap, knowing full well that the tone of my voice is completely unprofessional. He appears to find my lack of composure perfectly delightful.

"Care to elaborate, _Harls?_ "

I swallow in a futile attempt to assuage the drought in my throat.

" You talk about worshiping chaos, but _you_ are not chaos. _You_ are the epitome of control. And the only way to be in complete, unadulterated control is to _create_ the chaos. To take control from everyone else, to sew the entropy."

" Oh I _like_ that. But you're just a little bit _off."_ The repetition from his earlier diatribe is no doubt meant to remind me of my outsider status. "I'm not in _control_ ; I just like to see what happens when I kick dominos. _You_ on the other hand, are so tightly wound that a guy might be tempted to find out if you have a _circuit board_ under all that _skin_. Control is like a drug _Harle_ y; once you have it, you're always scared you wont be able to get _more._ "

"I don't think there's anything wrong with wanting some structure." Unless you feel so structured that you're suffocating. Inside a box.

"You're not looking for _structure,_ doctor, you want a _cage_. I think you know exactly what kind of creature is wearing that _pretty face_." He makes _creature_ a compliment, twisting _pretty face_ into an insult. I'm instantly aware of the way Bradley looks at me, like there might be two animals in this small room.

"That's all the time we have for today, Mr. Doe."

His eyebrows shoot sky high.

" _Is it now_? I could have sworn we still had _six minutes left_." We do, but I need to get out of here before I vomit or start crying.

"I'll see you next week Mr. Doe."

" _It's a date_ , _dear Quinevere_." His stygian timber nips at my heels as I stand, trying not to rush for the door.

After work I still feel _wrong_. I feel like there is something under my skin, pushing out to reveal its contours each time I look away. The pervasive malaise sours my dinner and I end up scraping half a chicken breast into a Tupperware container that I'll likely forget in the back of my fridge.

My phone rings and I lurch like I've only been home from 'nam for a month. I may as well be, since the number on the display is my mom's. I briefly consider picking up and letting my mother yell for a while-if only to relieve a little pressure-but given that fact that I've already ignored her for a week, she's liable to go nuclear. I hide my buzzing phone under a pile of mail on the kitchen counter, and I think about another time she went nuclear.

I was probably around 11 or 12. I didn't have many friends in the neighbourhood, and only one at school- an allegiance formed entirely on the basis of a mutual hatred of one _prissy_ _Missy Finkle_. So I spent a lot of time reading, and when my mom started to nag- apparently worried I wasn't spending enough time with my 'little buddies'- I made it a habit to go read in the library on the pretence of meeting any one of a number of fictional people. At the time I was into detective novels, stuff like Nancy Drew and the Hardy boys. I couldn't think of anything I wanted more than to spend the rest of my life solving gruesome murders, the subterfuge and erratic excitement of the genre called to me.

But when I discovered the true crime section, just two shelves facing each other deep in the dim labyrinth of stacks, I felt like I had found my _real_ friends- the ones I had been waiting for. I had cleared out the collection within months, and started to order new volumes in from surrounding libraries. I filled my head with Geine, Berkowitz, Kemper and Gaskins, trying to understand, to get inside. Then I started reading about Manson, about the people that he sculpted into perfect little toys, about the girls who were quick to stab and torment a pregnant Sharon Tate _just because he asked them to_.  
And I started to think: what does it take to denature Jekyll; what does it take to become Hyde?

I saved up my allowance for stamps, I wrote a letter in my most grown up script, and I sent it to San Quentin Penitentiary. I didn't think he would write back, I mean he's sort of a celebrity right? But he did. And so I started to write more, I wrote to Gacy and Ramirez too, each letter signed with a lie, Harleen Holmes, P.D.

I really thought I could figure something out, that I could crack these men despite the countless trained investigators that couldn't make the cut. I started to wake up early each morning, to sneak out the front door and check the mail before my parents got up- I didn't want them intercepting these exciting new correspondences.

I had four replies tucked delicately into a box under my bed for re-reading, when my mother caught me red-handed walking into my room with laundry-laden arms. I rushed to shove the letter in my hands under my duvet, but I was far too slow.

" _What_ is that Harleen, what are you hiding?" She snatched the paper from my hands, likely thinking it was a bad grade I didn't want to catch wrath for, but as she read, her expression turned from casual disapproval to hysteric revulsion. " _What is this Harleen?"_ she asked again, her voice horribly quiet.

I didn't say anything. I knew I had already hit bottom.

Then came the crying and the yelling, the telling me how _sick_ it was, how stupid and dangerous, and when my father came home, so did his belt. Needless to say I was grounded, but the confinement wasn't what hurt the most.

It was the fact that I truly felt I had lost a few friends.

I spend the remainder of the evening pacing around my apartment, alternately trying to clean or just rearrange the furniture. By the time the couch has made three full circles of the living room I know I'm just being ridiculous, so I suit up and head out into my unlimited obstacle course.

I still see my mother's disgusted face in every woman on the street below, and she follows me home after, glaring at me from the backs of my eyelids as I try to fall asleep.

I'm back in the interview room. The lighting seems harsher, casting corners into darkness and sharply contouring the tile and the quickly deteriorating walls. The clock appears to be broken as it spins wildly like its on fast-forward. I wonder idly who added all the extra hands.

It takes a moment to note that he's sitting across from me, but there is no table between us and he isnt bound by canvas, nor chains, nor manacles. He straddles his chair, arms resting folded across its back. His gloved hands hang limp, and deceptively mellow from his wrists.

The man staring at me like I'm a shiny toy is not the washed out skeleton I have become accustomed to- he is the pale emperor; he is Prometheus, and Loki and Anansi, lying to God.

With his hair slicked on top and opulent green to match his hell-gate eyebrows, with his lips a livid crimson crawling up his face and his eyes fluorescent disks swathed in smeared black paint he is the chromed conqueror and his throne is forged of bone and tendon.  
He does not speak, and though he is not close enough to touch, swear I can feel his breath branding my flesh when his lips part. I shiver, my arms wrapping around my body like I could loose a piece if I'm not careful.

By the avaricious glint in his eyes, I think I might.

"Are you feeling _vulnerable_ doctor? A little _exposed_ maybe _?"_ His voice is liquor, too smooth to be safe but too singular stop drinking before my head starts to spin.

I realize I _do_ feel exposed, even more so when he jumps from his seat and kicks it to the side, the cheap aluminum chair clatters. The sound is concussive and I flinch. He laughs, stalking towards me, the long tails of his amethyst coat switch behind him. I can practically see the Serengeti grass parting in his wake.

Unfortunately that makes me an antelope.

He stops just before our toes touch, putting his hands on his hips and inclining his head to the side. He towers above me and I feel like a child from my chair, craning my neck to keep his face in view.

"What _are_ we going to with you?" He croons, leaning in close to poke my nose with a slender index finger.

When he touches me I realize with considerable horror that I happen to be completely naked. _That's right,_ I haven't even been blessed with a mortifying pair of _granny panties._

I fall out of my chair in a frenzied attempt to cover my bits, and scuttle to put my back against the wall, pulling my knees to my chest. I don't think I have _ever_ felt more gut wrenchingly awkward in my life. I'll loose my job! How did I get in here without clothes? _Has no one noticed?_

"Y'know Doc, I think we should do _all_ our sessions like this. I just feel _exponentially_ more comfortable." He crouches in front of me. " _Wanna talk about my childhood?_ My daddy used to hit me-… _wait a second_ , what's gotten _into_ me? Must be this new _technique_. I can't help it- you just look so _trustworthy_." The grin grows insidiously as he stares me down.

I try to speak, to say anything to relieve the silence, to relieve the way his gaze makes my skin febrile, but no sound comes out. I hiss uselessly. With counterfeit compassion, he pouts for me.

" _Poor little harlequin_ , cat got your tongue? _HA!_ " He slaps his knee. "Don't worry, _daddy will fix it_." And then his hands close around my throat, and my world begins to spin down the drain, and-

I'm thrashing to free myself from the sheet I've somehow managed to wrap around my neck. _Godamn it Harleen, what the hell?_ I check my phone, and obviously its 5 AM. On a Saturday. I end up rolling around uselessly, thinking about that…nightmare? _It's just a manifestation of how exposed I felt after our last session_.

Classic show up naked to work dream. For a therapy session with the joker. _Right_.

I kind of want to cry, but instead when my throat constricts and my chest begins to heave, I laugh. And it feels good, so I keep laughing until I manage nod off again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes:** Thanks again to everyone who is reading- as always reviews are love to me and I thrive on them 3

This week we have a short cameo from some other gotham favourites of mine, so fingers crossed that I did them justice. I hope you guys are enjoying the story so far!

 **CHAPTER 4: You catch more psychopaths with honey than vinegar**

I wake at 1pm like I'm crawling out of the grave. Checking my phone with a mouth full of toast, I see 3 more calls from my mom, and one from Ashley. Instead of checking the Pandora's box that has become my voicemail, I call ash back.

"Hey!" I can hear pitchy female voices and clinking plates in the background.

"Hey, listen, is this a bad time?" I sound needy and it disgusts me but I really need some non-incarcerated human contact.

"Never for you, hold on." I hear her excuse herself, and the background noise begins to fade as she presumably walks to the bathroom or entryway.

"OOH my _god_ , thank you so much for calling, I was about to gouge an eye out with a fruit skewer. I'm at brunch with Cora and the Stepford wives, because _clearly_ I hate my brain cells and I want them to die."

Cora is a friend of hers from Parsons who got married last year. Apparently the wedding turned out somewhat like Invasion of the Bodysnatchers, Cora being thoroughly snatched.

"Wanna ditch?" I tempt. With Ash, It will be grade nine until we're eighty.

"I thought you'd never ask! So, what's my alibi, fake-ketchup period? Or maybe late-onset epilepsy?"

" One seizure doesn't qualify as epilepsy." I laugh.

"Whatever, you know what I mean- _what do I tell these suburbians?_ You need to get me out of here, what if they're…" She gasps. " _contagious?_ "

I giggle.

"Well you just answered a _very urgent_ phone call, didn't you?" I ask.  
"Why yes I think I did, would you kindly refresh my memory about what I learned during that call?"

"I seem to recall that your _dear_ friend Harleen's mother was hit by a car! She's just _so_ very torn up about it, and you need to go to her in this time of need!"

"Whoa there Harly-Horse! I'm sensing some tension girl, what's up- Is your mom being a shit weasel?"

"Of course."

"Lucy?"

"Double shit weasel."

"Damn. We gots' ta' talk." She mimics my accent in a way that manages to be endearing rather than insulting. "Caplansky's?"

"You know it."

"Kay, give me 40 minutes."

In the interim I forfeit a shower, quickly getting dress and deciding to walk to china town. I feel like for the past week, I haven't walked on any _actual_ streets, only rooftops and Arkham tile. Outside, I take in lungfuls of that dewy Gotham smog as I watch the harried people scurry like ants to the accompaniment of car horns and the rattle of the subway under our feet. They look _absurd_ , rushing around like it's the end of the world, trying to get to work, or an appointment, or a date. I know I do it too, but right now I feel like I'm watching it through someone else's glasses, and they seem a little clearer than my own. I walk all the way to Caplansky's with a smile, because for the moment, from the outside… _it's funny_.

Ash is a sight for sore eyes and I melt into her hug like it's a shiatsu. Her tawny skin is already becoming paler in the thin fall sunlight- she tans all summer long, and her mother, Mrs. Chen is always on her ass about melanoma. Her short hair is hot pink for the moment and she wears a floor-length green leather coat, most likely an old costume piece she pilfered. A thin gold chain links her septum ring to her earring, and her hooded brown eyes are rimmed in deep burgundy shadow. As a designer for the Gotham Theater Company, there really aren't any restrictions on her appearance, so she's basically a different person every other week.

We guzzle coffee and I vent to Ash about my family, and all the unethical bullshit at work, and she vents about Cora the turncoat and an overly sassy intern, whom she is apparently contemplating bludgeoning with an industrial sewing machine. When we finish our third round of coffee, Ash mentions that she needs to pick up some fabric, and asks if I want to join her. Feeling both relieved at having had the chance to complain for a while and sufficiently livened by the caffeine, I do.

We're perusing a selection of thick velvets when I come across a spool of stunning cerise leather, leaning as if discarded against the end of the shelf.

I have always had an affinity for the color red. I had a particularly bathetic art teacher in grade nine who described it as the ultimate dichotomy: love and anger, destruction and creation. She said that red was the most _passionate_ color. My dopamine and serotonin soaked adolescent brain really latched on to that conceptualization.

I reach out to touch the fabric, as if I might _feel_ the pigment in its smooth surface. Ash spies me pawing it and walks over.

"You like it?" She asks.

I know exactly where she's going with this. I have a closet full of creations à la Ash; she's been making them for me since she first started sewing. Each one is a work of art honestly, they're immaculate. But I never wear them- I never feel like I _can_. With each new addition my guilt grows, and my available closet space shrinks.

"No. _Absolutely not_. No more spending money on beautiful things that I never wear because I'm boring, it's a waste on me Ash!"

"I will spend my money how I want _mom_! I'm a free woman." I roll my eyes as she fiches out the price tag. "Would you look at that? It's fifteen percent off, plus the Company's twenty-five percent discount- total steal. I'm _basically_ obliged to buy at least a few yards." She says with conviction.

"Ash-" she wags a sharp nailed finger at me.

"I'm not buying it for _you,_ 'Miss Vanity USA'. And if I _was_ , I would tell you that I think its ridiculous that you don't wear them, I know you try them on- you just wont wear them outside. And that's silly because you _clearly want to_ \- and you should, I mean _I_ made them- they're flawless." Ash's love is of the tough variety, and I like that, but sometimes it means she forces me to look in a mirror when it's the last thing I want to do. Her fiery eyes soften to embers and her next words are gentle. "I know you think people are going to judge you if you don't _dress down_ but the right people don't care, I mean look at me! I still have friends right?"

"I don't know, it's different, you're… _you_." I shrug, suddenly feeling quite self-conscious.

"What does that mean?"

" I don't know. Whatever. Just buy the leather if you want to."

She tucks the roll under her arm with her two other selection.

"I didn't need your permission." Her nostrils flare and her tone is imperious but her dimples say she's joking. I shove her playfully, glad that we seem to be done with the topic.

"So… _you want to hear about the Joker_?" I whisper like I'm the crypt keeper.

"Obviously!" she squeals. "I was _waiting_ …"

So I relay all the juicy details- _almost_ all. I leave out the part that I'm still unsure about, the part that's happening inside me. Ash listens with rapturous attention, and it feels like I'm talking about meeting a favourite author or something. I guess that's what drew Ash and I together. I can let her see some of my darkness, and she has a little to reflect back.

I spend the rest of the day with her, and return home full of lasagne and chocolate cake around 8pm. I'm glad that I didn't drive, because I feel more than a little tipsy after a few heavy handed cosmos- just one more of Ashley's numerous virtues. Entering my empty apartment, I'm thankful to not feel quite so starkly alone. I stare at the unopened Shiraz on my counter top and think, _why not?_

Five minutes later, I'm swaddled in a blanket on the couch alternately taking sips from the bottle and guzzling from a bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips. _This is the life,_ I fancy drunkenly. With apraxic hands I reach for the remote and turn on my TV. I catch Taxi-driver half way through and snort on my wine like a true lady when Robert DeNiro says "organizized." Unable to really focus, I end up flicking aimlessly through the channels. On Channel 5, my trigger finger freezes.

Reporters with grim faces talk about a man who used to work at Arkham Asylum. That man was Joseph David Pender. _Used_ to work there. I'm cold and then hot all at once, and waves of prickling darts pepper my skin, suddenly I'm much more sober than I was when I woke up. They found him propped up against the gates Saturday morning, his tongue severed and stuffed down his throat. Apparently he died sometime on Friday afternoon. With shaking hands, I set my wine glass down on the coffee table.

I wonder what time he was killed- I wonder if it was while I was in session with J. Some part of me knows it was. He killed him-just not with his own hands. And I am his flawless alibi. He even gave me a _hint_ in that second session! If they somehow link it to him…I could play dumb, but he would be on lockdown-or transferred. Either way, I wouldn't get to keep seeing him. _Idiot._

Then again he's not really risking anything for himself, I mean what does _he_ loose if he gets transferred? Its not like he wont be out of here in a month or two anyways. I fume, eyes glued to the TV but not really seeing it.

More than ever right now, I want to know _why_. What did Pender do merit an end like _that?_ There's no way _he_ won't try to provoke me with this. I need to be prepared for that session- I need to have something on him. I wont even have to say it-he'll _know_.

I switch off the TV and grab my laptop to go back through the cell footage. I slow every moment with Pender in the frame, zooming in and picking through the film. I feel remarkably validated when I actually notice a tiny slip of white passing between fingers as Pender helps Mr. J into his straight jacket.  
That's when it clicks.

J was said he felt restless that day. I would feel restless too if my breakout scheme just fell through. I'm betting J brought Pender on when he first got here-or maybe even last time he was locked up. It's possible that he bribed him, but a threat seems more likely. So they set up a correspondence, and then for some reason, the idiotic Pender backed out, leading to the attack. Come on, who wouldn't see that coming? I can't imagine what was salient enough to make him go back on his word; it's intuitive that the Joker is not the kind of man you want to disappoint.

 _This is something_.

I almost take a screenshot but I decide not to- I know where it is, and for the moment that's all that matters. With triumph, I take a big swig of wine. I then think about Pender and I feel uneasy. Not because he _died_ , not because _my_ patient killed him, but because his death didn't disturb me like it should have. I should be afraid for my own life, but instead I'm angry that _He_ risked being taken away from me. Maybe I _am_ just a little bit _off…_

On Sunday I rise early, ethanol latently inhibiting my ability to sleep in. I spend some time nursing my bludgeoning hangover with orange juice and then get around to checking email. There's one from Arkham H.R detailing a memorial for Pender on Tuesday. It's H.R that plans the memorials and its H.R that hires the new employees. Everything is a cycle.

There's another from Bob, checking if I'm all right since his hasn't seen me in while. The sentiment is sweet; he's always been good to me. But I only feel awkward, because without realising it I've moved on from the gym, and maybe from the people there. Right now it feels like I'm moving away from a _lot_ of people. At least I still have Ash. I know that detaching like this isn't healthy, but something about this feels inevitable. Sometimes you can't fight a feeling, sometimes you're not supposed to. Bottles aren't meant to be sealed forever, right?

My stomach drops at the sight of at the third email, which is from Leland. My immediate thought is that she's shutting me down. That I should have reported that first threat, or that they have something on Joker and they're already shipping him off. I see my career flash before my eyes as I open the message, dated Friday afternoon.

 _Good Morning Dr. Quinzel,_

 _I hope your weekend has been relaxing thus far. I just wanted to congratulate you, patient #0801 hasn't ever asked to see a therapist more often. Furthermore, he's been incredibly well behaved this month, a single assault is nothing compared to his usual body count._

 _I've put a great deal of faith in you throughout this process because I see a lot of myself in you, and I'm happy to say it seems to be paying off. Keep up the hard work, and I don't doubt we'll be seeing your name in Elsevier._

 _Please contact the Admin at you earliest convenience to schedule the extra sessions._

 _Cordially, Joan Leland, M.D_

I don't remember to exhale until I read the final line.

Requesting two sessions a week _definitely_ makes things more interesting. Especially because there's no way he just finds my presence calming. Not, after Pender- this is strategic. He thinks I'm smart, he said so. He expected me to look in to this. I wonder if he thought I was smart enough to actually _find_ something, if he was _that_ sure I wouldn't tell.

He's holding out a cootie catcher and he wants me to pick a color, any color. This isn't a request; this is him tossing the dice. He's telling me the game is starting whether I'm ready or not. _Tag! You're it._ Well I can play games too. He might be the devil, but I'd rather play Lilith than Regan.

Now might actually be the perfect time to petition to have the straight jacket removed. Leland is smart though, I wonder if she still believes he's being a _good boy_ after Pender's unfortunate end came to light. It still might be worth a shot, and I want it but… I _know_ he just killed someone.

Then again can I ever _really_ be sure that I'm safe with him? I know immediately that the answer is no. Still, beyond a passing thought about how reckless it would be, I don't really care. He's already threatened me on multiple occasions- at this point I would be worried if he stopped. Still, I resolve to wait until after our session to think more about pushing for a little liberation.

I schedule our extra appointment for Tuesday and though it makes me feel insufferably raffish, I wear red lipstick. The rather impulsive decision is the product of a theory that a colour so close to the one he usually wears himself might be a trigger. At this moment I feel like it was a really stupid idea, and I end up ducking my head in a fruitless attempt to hide at least a little, wishing it wouldn't look suspicious if _only_ wore it at the session. I dress in a black version of my usual uniform-the lipstick is quite enough for today.

The memorial is a sincerely awkward affair. Not many people deigned to wear black and many look discernibly bored. The resident priest seems excited though-I'm pretty sure he's quite underworked. I mean aside from the funerals. This is the first one since I've been here, but the mortality rate for Arkham employees is notoriously high. Statistically, the mentally ill are actually less violent than the rest of the population, but this happens to be an asylum of outliers.

They stick a wooden cross in the ground, hang a wreath on it, and call it a day. I wonder if my own memorial would be so concise. _Almost definitely- although Leland might sniffle._

I walk down to the cells a bit early so as to have a little time to probe him about Pender free from the recording equipment of the therapy room. This time I'm too distracted to notice the sinister atmosphere of Arkham's lower half. I hope Eddie doesn't ask why I moved our appointments to Wednesday. I don't want to hurt his feelings. I'll have to lie.

 _Wait_. If J wasn't bluffing when he said he _knew_ I hadn't visited Ed at his cell… I really need to figure out exactly how long his leash is. Or how long he tolerates it to be.

I step out of the stairwell and shake my head. _Come on Harleen, It's go time,_ I think, trying to pump myself up as I wave at the guard to let me through and march into the cell-block. I'm intending to put on an air of indifference, but when I reach his cell I find him hanging upside down from his chin-up bar, long body swaying ever so slightly and I crack a smile. With his eyes closed he seems almost serene. A good amount of coppery hair now sprouts from his head, fading into a dingy green. _You look like a carrot._

I giggle.

His indecently green eyes pop open and so does that smile, its breadth exaggerated by gravity. I realize I've been tilting my head to look at him, so I right myself.

 _You're wearing lipstick Harleen, act like a boss, not a puppy._

 _" Oooh dear!_ Did someone _die_?" he pipes with no small amount of smug contentment.

"We had a small memorial for Officer Pender today." I lift an eyebrow "Apparently he died choking on a snack."

He laughs like a fog-horn, like a _warning_. The twin voids of his pupils threaten to swallow their surroundings. He seems very glad to have me as an unwilling co-conspirator.

" _Somebody_ should have told that boy not to _bite off_ more than he could chew!" He titters.

"Why didn't _you_?"

"What?" He _might_ actually be surprised. He might also be playing.

"Why didn't you give him some advice when you had him by the neck? I'm sure he would have been _very_ attentive." I feel a bit queasy as I say it- I _am_ talking to the Joker, but I think I do a good job of brushing over my apprehension. His second of miscalculation has passed and he looks positively giddy with it, swinging back and forth. His laughter is pitched up and amplified as it ripples through the concrete box.

" _Oh Quinzel_ , you never cease to _amuse_...but why didn't _you?_ " He knows exactly where the guard is, and he's hushed his voice so as not to be heard.

I cross my arms.

"Why are you upside down?"

He chortles merrily, reaching up to grab the bar and jumping down. His agility is aberrant for such a lanky person.

"Oh y'know, just trying to feel close to my Batsy. I'm going to go _method_ -" He pauses, then squints his eyes and darts for the bars between us. I jump.

"My dear Quinzel! What _is_ the occasion? I know you didn't put _that_ on for dead little piggy-Pender. _Got a hot date?"_ His tone is practically licentious. If I were a lesser actress I would be blushing. But I was ready for this.

"What are you talking about Mr J?"

" Oh don't be _coy_ Harley, I'm talking about that lipstick you're wearing-its _simply ravishing_. I've got the same shade at home- _we're just two peas in a pod aren't we?_ "

I immediately duck my head in attempt to hide the redness I was moments ago so proud of having hidden. _Ok, so apparently I'm not as ready as I thought._

"What's this?" he giggles "the stoic doctor- the picture of professionalism-bashful at the first hint of a compliment? How _very_ interesting. I'd think a pretty girl like you would be used to the flattery by now."

"Yes, well. I've found that when people focus on my looks they ignore my brain." True, but not why I'm blushing. I tell myself its just about being _looked_ at, that I would have blushed had _anyone_ complimented it.

" _REALLY?_ Me too!" He exclaims. _Perfect, now tell me why._

He gives me an exaggerated version of his rictus, the scars bunching and pulling at his cheeks, and I laugh. "But seriously Doc, you need to stop caring what these _plebeians_ think. Look at me, I'm completely unconcerned with EVERYONE'S opinion and I've _always got a smile on my face._ Don't you see? You have an ad _vantage_! If people underestimate you, you can _always_ surprise them."

" Why wear the make up then? It incites fear, not disregard."

"Well see, my kindergarten teacher told me it's what's on the inside that counts, and that really _stuck_." He stresses the click at the end of the word. "But the thing is, people only want to look at your _skin._ So if you make the _right face_ , they'll take your word as gospel and they won't bother to read the _fine print_. And that's just _barrels_ of fun-means you can say almost anything and they'll gulp it down like a whore when the rent's due. Thing is I don't _have_ the right face." He bores into me and the scars that halve him suddenly look _raw_. True to trend though, he's only ever _not_ smiling for a second. "But you would know _all_ about making faces." He grins like we have a secret. I guess we do. "I don't think you've made a single expression so far without serious planning. No matter _how hard you try_ , the truth is still plain as day if anyone actually _cares to look_. Why _are_ you hiding?"

There goes my careful composure. I force myself to uncross my arms and straighten up.

"Why are you?" I ask. It's almost a bark.

He rolls his eyes.

"The make up doesn't _hide_ me it _accentuates_ me. It forces people to look at me and really _see_ me. That's the Ace up my sleeve, cupcake. People don't like _really_ seeing me, makes 'em scared, and you know what I said about scared people…" He shrugs, like it's the most obvious thing. "So I'll ask you again: why the pretty little mask, _Harley_? "

Once again, I am saved by the guards. Bradley looks tired; then again he seems to have a mostly lethargic personality. The block guard, on the other hand, looks hateful. It takes me a moment to remember he _did_ just lose one of his cohort. I was at the funeral.

"Caaaarter!" Bellows J like he's announcing a wrestler. "Grrr-eat to see you _, buddy,_ how've you been?" The clown dancing on the other side of the other side of the door throws open his arms, as if to an old friend. Well. He's certainly… _vibrant_ today.

Carter doesn't respond as he and Bradley move into the cell, his mouth twisted in revulsion. They pull on the straightjacket with a bit more vigor today.

" _Oh, no_! What _ever_ is the matter?" J puts on a long face, and I can't help but wonder if he _wants_ a beating. "You look a little _choked up_." Carter snaps, unleashing a feral cry and ramming J into the wall. The action is so impassioned that there's no real precision, and if J weren't already jacketed, there's no way it would have hit its mark.

"HEY!" I yell, moving for the open cell before Bradley slams the door in my face.

"I'm so sorry m'am!" He blurts, clearly in a panic and trying to pick the lesser of two evils. Carter's punches lend meter to the jocular shrieking of the now bloodied man in the straightjacket.

The man himself doesn't cringe away; he doesn't even look at his assailant. Instead his eyes pin _me_ , and the heat of his smile is dissonant as his head cracks repeatedly against the back wall of his cell. Bradley gets his arms around Carter and tries to pull him back, but the _godamn Joker_ blows a raspberry and Carter redoubles his efforts.

I swear, as soon as the kid stops breaking that _pretty face_ , I'll finish the job.

" _Get off him_! He can't defend himself!" I shout over the commotion- I need to say something to turn his anger, and it works. Carter jerks back and whirls at me.

"HE is a _FUCKING_ MAGGOT!"

I don't even blink.

" _He_ is a patient. _You_ are an employee at this institution, and as such, at the _very_ least I expect you not to act like a _child_."

" _Yeah_ Carter, I get special _privileges_." Well _tha_ t was suggestive. I give J a withering glare and he licks his lips. _Asshole._

"I understand that you just lost someone, and for that reason I think it's best if I request to have you transferred instead of fired."

Carter laughs coldly.

"I didn't just 'lose someone' lady! _He_ killed Joe-" Carters voice cracks." _He_ did it, _I know he did it!"_

"If the glove don't fit…" The suspect shrugs.

"I'M GONNA FUCKING KILL YOU!" rages Carter turning back to the subject of his hatred, but Bradley actually manages to be halfway useful and get between them.

"How would you be any different from him if you did that?" I ask the bull in the cage.

"And she pulls out the batman logic…."Mutters J.

Carter doesn't respond, but with the expansive and monotonous Bradley in his field of view, he seems to be cooling off.

Bradley finishes the job of shackling J's ankles and pushes him out of the cell while Carter stays back. I hear the sharp clang of a steel-toe against a metal bunk as we walk away.

"Are you ok?"

"Ye-" Bradley looks a little confused until he realizes I wasn't asking him.

The Joker laughs and the sound is deep and rolling.

"Oh I'm just _Peachy!"_ he reassures, and then he drops into a conspiratorial stage whisper. "You caught me, _Meow."_

"I'm serious!" I strive to press the smile out of my lips, but just end up making a parodic frown. He rolls his eyes. _Come on Harleen, you're angry!_

" _Whyyy?_ That's so _boring_. But _seriously_ , "He chuckles. "A good knock'll _really_ clear a guys head- _you_ should try it sometime. _"_

"I think my head's clear enough, thank you very much." I fold my arms over my chest in attempt to regain an air of composure. This really gets him going. Apparently he disagrees about the state of my head, because he roars as we pass through the checkpoint-which might as well not be there if the guard manning it does nothing but _watch cartoons_.

I check my watch with a sigh, noting we've already lost 15 minutes of our session. Despite my careful knotting, this plan is already frayed and I don't have enough hands to catch hold of all those strings. Counting the walk up to the therapy room, we'll have less than 40 minutes left. My hands ball into fists that I quickly release and force a little 'calming breath'.

"Unfortunately our session will have to be a bit shorter today." The disappointment bitters my voice as we step into the elevator. The chipper ding of the closing doors has me irascibly gritting my teeth.

"What, you have a _prior engagement_?" He sneers.

"Yes actually, Tuesday's happen to be _very_ busy for me."

"So who did ya' bump off the roster, _Doc?_ " one of those indomitable eyebrows jumps, nearly obscuring bright eyes under the gaunt shadow cast by the insufficient lighting of the elevator

"What?"

He grins with a hint of vulpine incisor.

"Come on, you can tell me! _Who got voted off the island?"_

He knows, because the extra appointments weren't just a game, they were a _test_. Well, shit. I don't know if taking the bait was a pass or a fail, but he seems pleased as punch and either way my stomach still drops into my knees. The elevator rises and comes to a halt. We step out in a triangle formation, the Joker and I at the front and very weary Bradley bringing up the rear

"It would be unethical for me to talk about my other patients with you." I'm staring straight ahead as we walk, but I can see him doing an exaggerated slump in my periphery.

"You're being a real spoil sport, _Quinzel._ Why the raining on my parading?" He sighs. _Because you're derailing my attempt at manipulating you into some form of sectional subordination._

"I'm mourning a colleague." I say.

He barks with laughter.

"Now _there's_ a punch line. You sure do play a long game Doc! I was starting to get _worried._ "

I open the door for J and his escort, and take my seat without paying him any more attention until he's seated as well, and secured in front of me.

"You said that the makeup forces people to see you, that it scares them to see you…but you aren't talking about the scars." I begin with jurisdiction, ans He lifts one sullen eyebrow. I clear my throat, and then I force myself to keep going. "The makeup, the clothing, it's a persona- and I don't mean I think you're just playing a part, at least _not anymore_. I think that in your mind, all of this is integral to being you. You don't feel like _yourself_ without your hair dye and a three-piece suit. That's why you _hate_ it when we call you Mr. Doe." Some weakened thread in my mind pulls an alarm bell that the rest of me ignores- after all, I might be provoking a man who had someone killed not five days ago. I would be a fool to think I couldn't end up with my own witty that isn't a concern.

He's grinning again, manically tapping his foot on the ground.

"You think that's _pathological_ Doc?"

"No, I think that there is a wide variety of ways and reasons that people express themselves, and because of that there are going to be outliers. Outlier status doesn't necessarily equate deviance, and it doesn't seem to disturb you. So no, I don't consider that pathological."

"What _do_ you consider pathological?" eyebrows quirked, eyes wide, he's leaning forward again.

"Your compulsion to proverbially have the last laugh. If someone displeases you, _they're dead_ , if they threaten to upstage you, they're dead- let's be honest, _if you feel like it they're dead."_ I may have gotten a little carried away there. _To Leland & security staff: Not about Pender, just a sweeping statement (nervous smile)_. "But that's not really what I'm interested in."

"So? Spill the beans, don't keep me hangin', woman!" He's grinning now; the tapping of his foot has stopped.

"This persona-" I start, he grimaces. "The Joker. I believe that is you _now_ , but I don't think it always was. I'm not going to ask about your past, I know you don't like that-" He snickers.

His eyes keep darting to my lips, as they have multiple times since he first remarked on my lipstick. The colour seems like a magnet for him, and that was my intention, to distract him. But I didn't anticipate how it might feel, to have him looking at my _skin_. He usually only looks under it. I wonder if it feels as bizarre to him as it does to me. _Wake up Harleen, you need to keep talking._

"I want to know," my throat dries under the heat of his broiling green eyes. "Whether you think something _made_ you, or if the Joker was inside from the start."

"That's still the past, Doc." He negates in a tsk-tsk tone.

"I'm not asking for specifics, I don't want a sob story about your negligent mommy or your alcoholic daddy- I just want to know: are you a reaction? Or was this a seed that just needed to be watered?"

"Are you asking if I'm _bad to the bone_? You wanna talk about the _roots_ of _madness?_ " He lets the S hiss between his teeth. His voice turns darker and smokier, his head continues to twist to the side and I worry that it might pop right off. "I don't wanna _tell_ you doc, that would just be a spoiler! I think it's important to protect the _integrity_ of the _plot_." He says it like he's read the script, like there is one. Or like he's going to create one- maybe he already has.

My tinny little alarm goes off.

"Aww!" He groans like an oversized child. "Off to play with your other friends so soon? I feel cheap! I'm starting to think you only want me for my _psychopathy._ "

"I'm sure you'll manage to entertain yourself in my absence."

"How could I? YOU're my _favorite_ new toy."

There's the possession again. I don't know if it's a line or a portent, but I do know the oxygen supply in this room is dwindling, and that if I don't escape his eyes my lungs wont start working again. I stand on dubious knees and attempt not to scramble for the door.

"I-uh-will see you next week." Is all I can manage with my hand on the doorknob. I can still feel his stare cooking the skin on my back.

"No you wont, you'll see me on Friday! Losing track of those _pesky_ marbles, are we _Harley?_ "

I want to run away _right now_ , this is what fight or flight means.

I burn and my heart hammers like it's trying to break down the door in front of me, but I hold on to that doorknob like an anchor for just a second longer because I cant leave with my tail between my legs.

"Losing track implies I still have some-" There is a shiver in my voice, and though I can't see him, though I don't dare turn around, I know he loves it. "So at least I'm better off than you are _, Mister J."_

 _"HA!_ I think _that_ depends on your definition of ' _better'_!"

Berserker laughter chases me into the hallway and I don't stop my hysteric march until I make it to the stairwell and slouch against the wall. The gelid cinderblock at my back cooling the blood that passes just under the surface, and all the roaring in my ears begins to fade with the echoing laughter.

You're my favorite new _toy_.

 _Am_ I? I feel like every time I learn the rules, he changes them. I keep thinking I'm a player, I keep trying to move pieces-but maybe that's just how he keeps me distracted. Maybe that's how he keeps me from noticing that I'm slowly turning to silicon. Maybe I've been a toy this whole time; maybe I can't _be_ anything else. _Bullshit, Harleen-take off the sad-sack and open your eyes. He doesn't get to make that choice for you. Now: do you want to be a player or would you rather be a piece?_

After that session I feel unbearably thankful that my day is busy, it keeps me distracted. I don't have time to break down.

By the time I make it home and halfway through a takeout pizza I don't feel like falling apart anymore, because the more I think about it, the more I know I'm not a piece- It's not in my nature. And the more I think about the game, the more I know how much I love to play. How much I love trying to surprise him.

I've felt jacked up all day, but never so much as now, sitting at my kitchen table and trying not to upset it with my restless legs. Somehow, I get the horrid idea that this is the time to face the familial infection sweltering in my voicemail box. After all, it has been full for three days now, and I need to be able to get messages from work. Out of some sense of misguided bravado or unperceived masochism I decide to actually listen instead of just deleting them. _Big mistake._

According to my mother this has been the final straw. Apparently I've always been a real thorn in her side; she's spent all these years trying to bring god into my life, and I've had the audacity to reject the big guy at every turn. See, I didn't realize that choosing a career in psychiatry and having distaste for _insipid_ men constituted an aversion to god.

"If you're going to go on like this- isolating yourself, only spending time with those _crazies,_ being rude to _perfectly good people-"_ HA! Yeah, Tanner is good people, _for sure_. "then I can't have you in my life anymore. Lord knows I love you Harleen, but I can't do this anymore, I can't keep pulling you into the light! You know you made Paul and Lucy fight that night? He's staying at Tanner's now, Lucy is an absolute _mess_ , poor thing. You're a disease for this family- just like your father was, and if you plan to stay that way I think you need to _stay away_." I also didn't realize I was corrupting my dear and _obviously faultless_ relatives. I can't listen to this anymore. I jab at the end call button like I'm trying to send my thumb through it. I delete the rest of the messages without opening them and allow myself to fling a stack of papers off the island to spare the half full bodum of coffee next to it.

 _I hope Paul finally springs for a divorce. I hope Satan appears to my mother in her eggs tomorrow morning._

I've heard words like this from her before, in high school. I ended up running away to stay with Ash. But of course I ended up running right back, guilty and shameful, and to be honest, fearing just a little for my soul. Fearing that if I didn't have my family I would be nothing but a loose buoy in a storm.

Not this time mom. I _like_ the storm now.

Before I realize it I'm on the roof, not having had the restraint to wait until nightfall. I'm shredding my sneakers on gravel and flinging myself across the canyons that yawn between towers. I let out a little roar as I enter a particularly challenging leap and hear a gasp far below me. Just before I land, I connect eyes with a rather shaken looking bus boy bringing a bag of refuse into the alley. I start to laugh and the action ramps up in my chest, so I cackle like a hyena as I tumble and dash over Gotham.

This isn't funny 'Ha Ha' laughter; this is laughter like an air-raid siren, like the calm look on an inmates face as they pull out a whittled toothbrush shiv.

I make risky jumps that feed some young canker in my chest. It licks its lips every time I scrabble for purchase and drinks in that cold flood of adrenaline, the one that tells me I'm hanging by a thread. I throw myself before I know exactly where the next platform is, I swing from straining power lines and burst blindly into the clouds of smoke and steam that pour from the smokestacks that mount the older buildings. I feel like an _animal,_ like the embodiment of reckless impulse-I feel like batman!

" _I am the vengeance_." I growl under my breath, vaulting over a rooftop greenhouse "I AM THE NIGHT!" I laugh until my stomach hurts and I have to stop because I'm going to launch myself at the ground if I keep going like this. I jog a few laps around the roof to bring my heart rate down.

I'm sitting against an AC duct when hear a hiss and I tuck my self into the shadows.

A figure in black clutching a small package sprints into view, darting along the edge of the roof then leaping to the next building with feline fluidity. Another larger figure follows on her tail, his inky cape rippling like water.

 _Holy shit. Was that- did he hear me?_ I'm on my feet and running in a crouch to peer over the side. The two figures continue their race across the skyline, and before I've actively made the decision, I'm bounding after them.

I have to hand it to them, they keep a brutal pace-but hey, they're the pros! I'm just doing this for fun.

Despite my serious lagging, I manage to keep them in sight while (hopefully) keeping myself out of it. I watch as she dodges his bat-shirukin things, or swats them out of the air like flies. He eludes every crack of her whip, skipping over it or ducking out of its breadth. With a seemingly choreographed back and forth, they must either be perfectly matched or know each other _very_ well.

When he pulls up short and dives over the edge, she startles, but when he snaps open his cape and catches an up-drift she takes off like a cat out of hell. He veers around in front of her and she dives but he still manages to catch her around the midriff, tackling her with full force to the ground.

I reach an adjacent building and drop onto a darkened balcony to peek through the flowerpots.

He's got the package now, and she's on his shoulders trying to choke him out with her legs while she grabs for it. I allow myself a second to appreciate her costume- _where do you buy a tailored leather jumpsuit? And who would have thought goggles could look that cool?_ I sigh in a moment of girlish idolatry before my eyes travel down and I can help but appreciate the fact that her costume is now unzipped to her sternum. And hey, for his part, Bats does have a pretty swell heiny.

Meanwhile, the package has been thrown out of reach and they're back on the ground, wrestling and snarling. She kicks his grappling gun out of his hand, but he catches hold of her other leg and yanks her back, attempting to pin her. She lands a blow straight to the to his mouth, and uses the momentum to flip him. She grabs him by the neck of his cowl and- _Oh my god._ I clap a hand over my mouth to muzzle a giggle.

She's _kissing_ him! And he is _definitely_ kissing back. I guess Batman's got a thing for bad girls!

He rolls her onto her back and- _Jesus Christ_ she's _purring_. I decide it's too creepy to continue watching this make out session, so I sneak away to bust a gut at a safe distance. Feeling energized and, to be honest, a little…um, _over stimulated,_ I end up staying out _way_ too late for a school night. I can't wash the smile off my face when I get home, even as the puddle at the base of the shower runs to clear.

My life, for all intents and purposes is, well, _insane_ right now. But… I feel engaged for once, I feel _something_. I got so used to numbness that this fear, this excitement, this _tension_ is totally, exhilaratingly unfamiliar.

I remember being 11, at the top of the Kamikaze waterslide at Funland, fiddling with the bows on my new preadolescent-appropriate tankini, and scrunching my toes against the squeaky wet PVC of the yawning tunnel before me. With the steady flow of chlorinated water that ran into it, I got the feeling that the slide was trying to suck me in, and it was a _very_ long way to the bottom.

"Move it or get out of the way kid, there's a line." Grumbled the older boy manning the ride. Perfidious heat flared across my face and, bracing myself on the curved red sides, I folded my wet spaghetti legs and sat down. My fear of dying on this ridiculous slide was one thing; my fear of social reprimand was another _entirely_.

So with shaking arms I pushed off, and hurtled into the drowning darkness. I was screaming and water was rushing up my nose, my bathing suit bottoms had been reduced to butt floss but I felt _AMAZING_! My ' _help me mom, I'm dying'_ shrieks turning to battle cries as I ripped around corners.

That day I realized I'm a _bit_ of an adrenaline junkie.

It started as an obsession with big slides, roller coasters, and jumping off the swing at its highest arc- oh and we can't forget my stint with the serial killer pen pals. My mother tried to smother it at every turn; she considered it inappropriate and reckless behaviour for a _young lady_. So I got more secretive. She put me in gymnastics to give me an "outlet" and stopped talking about it. Gymnastics actually turned out to be all I needed for a while, but I progressed too quickly and that electric fear was extinguished.

So I turned up the volume a little.

I told my mom I was going to a friend's house or picking up an extra shift at work, and I went to climb bridges. I lay down on train tracks and closed my eyes, I trespassed, and I provoked strange men. If control is a drug, then so is fear, and I developed a tolerance _very_ _quickly_.

At school I was "Lucy's Psycho Sister" until I met Ash, at which point I became "One Of Those Goth Chicks". That's right, I had an entire secret (shoplifted) wardrobe. I changed from jean and polo shirts to black dresses with fishnets and combat boots in the grungy school washrooms everyday before class. Oh, and Ashley creations-lots of those. I stole booze and fabric for her birthday every year, champagne and chiffon for Christmas. Ash distracted me from my most risky pursuits; I just didn't have time for them anymore.

But that old craving remained, and pushed under it grew, shadowed by the weight of adult responsibility and class, and _paying_ for class-even with the scholarships. A different kind of stress took over my life for a while, an all consuming and completely exhausting one. I lost track of things that I didn't _have_ to do, and life was just survival. Then I graduated and got my first placement in the prison system. I was _finally_ living the life I had been fighting so hard to obtain…but the colours aren't as bright as I imagined, the contrast not as high. Maybe some people can thrive on ersatz kindling but I clearly need a pyre under my ass.

I slather myself in tiger balm and slide into bed, passing out like I've been tranquilized.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes:** This one turned out pretty long, but I think its a fun chapter. I hope you enjoy, and as always don't be afraid to review. Much love!

 **CHAPTER 5: Every great homicide starts with a great story**

I've had three hours of sleep and I look it. Between my tumid under-eyes and my Romero shamble I'm _sure_ I'll inspire credence in my patients and co-workers. When I plop myself down in the therapy room, I immediately chug half my mug of coffee. _Come on Caffeine get to work, block those adenosine receptors!_

When Eddie pushes through the door with his guard, he nods at me once but he keeps his eyes on his chair.

"Why the change of routine Ms. Quinzel?" He asks it the moment he sits down, locking his fingers together over a bouncing knee. The tendons in his neck seem to draw down the corners of his mouth.

Of _course_ he asked. He's a sucker for routine. I drain the rest of my coffee.

"I'm sorry about that Eddie," I say, shaking my head. " I over-booked my Tuesdays, I wasn't able to cope with that many consecutive sessions. I moved you because I felt that our bond was the most stable. I hope that's alright."

Eddie looks surprised and then just a little abashed, the rigid curve of his mouth softening. I almost feel bad, he seems so _plea_ sed. I mean it's not a total lie-not at all. He _is_ my most stable patient right now… I smile back to paint over the guilt.

"It's not a problem Mrs. Quinzel, I certainly hope this new arrangement proves to be better suited to your schedule. You _really_ don't look very well." He says like it's an obvious fact. I cringe. "At least this way I won't be forced to attend Dr. Abney's _infantile_ group finger painting sessions."

Frankly, I'm not surprised he isn't fond of art therapy. Whether or not he enjoyed the activity itself, he would see it as damaging to his reputation. Eddie holds his intellect above all else so he guards its perception like a newborn. He doesn't see art therapy or well, _most people_ as worthy of his time because he doesn't consider them to be sufficiently engaging for that potent mind.

" Well we _are_ going to switch you into a new activity, Ed. You tend to do better when you're engaged. Any thoughts on what you would like to do?"

Haughty indifference colors his features and he sticks up his nose ever so slightly, glasses sliding all the way up.

"Although almost anything would be better than _doodling_ , I can't imagine you have anything I might _actually_ want to do." He scorns.

"What would you do if you weren't in here?"

He's been staring off to the left of my face as he often does, but his snap back to center.

"I would be planning, doctor." He sits a little straighter, shoulders pulling back. "Wesker thinks _he's_ the puppet master, but none of them- _none of them_ know how many strings _I_ pull. _I_ get things done." As he speaks, steel slides into his voice and his chin tucks progressively, not with shame but bale.

"Do you plan because you choose to or because you need to?"

"I don't see how that would be meaningful." He snaps.

"What happens when the plans don't go as predicted Eddie?"

"Someone useless _dies_."

"Are you telling me you're in the habit of finding scapegoats when circumstance doesn't work in your favour?" _Whoa there Cujo, back off._

" Oh I account for chance Dr. Quinzel. The only variation left is _human error_ and unfortunately there is no shortage of _that_." The tips of his fingers go white as he crushes them between each other.

" If you could eliminate all human contact-lets say you built some very sophisticated A.I to help you with your projects- Would you do that? Would you isolate completely?"

He's staring at my left ear again, but for at least a second it isn't discomfort with eye contact that distances his gaze. It's mourning.

"Yes." His voice is so quiet I lean forward to catch it. He clears his throat. "I've found that people and attachments constitute vulnerability and they predict sloppy, emotional mistakes. For that reason I avoid contact as much as possible, and I certainly feel no attachment to the men who work for me-nor to my possessions for that matter."

"Wouldn't that be boring?"

"What?"

"If there was no variation, if everything was infallibly predictable and people acted with flawless reason and clarity, would the riddles be any fun if everyone _always knew the answer?"_

He narrows his eyes but doesn't respond. I sigh internally. _I've done it again, the magic disappearing Eddie act. Thank you, thank you, I'll be here all week._ This is what I get for under sleeping. I'm about to toss in the towel when that illusive proverbial light bulb mercifully flicks on.

"Eddie… how would you feel about teaching a class?"

"Those who _can_ do. Those who can't teach."

So I'm going to have to put a spin on it.

"Yes, _well_ you're the latter currently, aren't you? You happen to be incarcerated. So instead of wasting all those lovely cerebral circuits on complaining, why don't you spend this time explaining things to people who want to learn? I think you would be a _brilliant_ teacher Eddie."

 _Score_ , he looks flattered, which means he's considering it.

"I don't really think that would work out." He mutters, but his mouth is set with a little too much determination. _The lady doth protest too much, methinks._

"These people are there voluntarily, they _want_ to learn. And if they don't respect your authority we'll take them out of the program. You've been an _extremely_ well behaved patient, Eddie. You've earned some responsibility." I put as much warmth as I can into my face and I smile despite how much it hurts my sapped zygomatic muscles. Eddies eyebrows pull up and he opens his mouth once, and then closes it once before saying:

"Really?" He looks five years old.

"Of course Eddie, you _deserve_ it."

"Ok. But I'm not committing to this-I'll try it. If they turn out to be a pack of mongrels, I'm done." Grown up Eddie is back but there's a little light in his eyes, and I figure even if the rest of this day is a total flop I still might have made a little difference. Like last week, I find a foil in my patient.

Despite how I fear change, how I fear that I can't control how I am perceived, I know I would not want to live in a world without variability. Entropy makes things _interesting_. To be jolted is the only way to _purely_ experience something, the only way not to color it with preconceived impressions.

I think about that as I drive home, not really noticing the weak base of the radio or my seasonally inappropriate neglect of the heater.

 _The world is_ _ **arbitrary**_ , _it's a giant Rube-Goldberg machine that ends in your death so it doesn't matter what you do because the dice are already rolling! You may as well have a little_ _ **fun**_ _._

 _He_ said that in our first session. And I think…I think I might be starting to agree. I try not to ruminate on the second part, about sanity being what it's called when you forget about the entropy. I hope to God, Morgan Freeman, and the Devil-really anyone who might listen-that the inverse isn't true.

 _No more moping. Make a plan._

He's been gaining more and more ground in the past two sessions, restricting my territory, and its time to push for my space. Last weeks attempt didn't go as planned, but I feel _armed_ now. What can he say to set me off that he hasn't already? Is it really _so bad_ to be a _bit_ like him- canny and ambitious?

Maybe I need to be less concerned about winning matches and focus more on the end game. Maybe if I give a little he'll be slower to react when I tug back.

When I get home, I cook and eat a meal without really registering any of the steps involved or what I've made, and go straight to my laptop with my frying pan and a fork.

I start to go through the footage from my sessions with J, selecting the clips that make me look the best and splicing them together. The warden likes publicity, I can give him that. _He's_ asked to see _me_ more; I've got some ammunition here. I have access to more data on the Joker than anyone else at this point, and If I can keep it that way, I can keep promising the warden bribes in the form of academic papers and tell-all books.

This time, I'll be asking to have my patient unrestrained.

I leave a message with Warden Finche's assistant Rebecca asking to have a meeting set. I drop a line of bogus about interest from the A.P.A for good measure-its not like there _wouldn't_ be interest. A wave of erratic energy overtakes me when I hang up. There's no way I'll be able to sleep right now, so I crack open a bottle of pinot.

I end up in my closet _screaming_ along to Dancing Queen as I riffle through the myriad of Ashley-made garments. I tug on red velvet bomber jacket and a pair of leather pants with ridged knee patches, and I look like I'm sixteen years old again. I giggle at myself, gleefully diving back into the pile and loosing myself in a private fashion show to the musical stylings of Abba.

I wake up at ten thirty in a nest of clothes, dangerously close to my open wine bottle, and I drag myself to bed, leaving my mess for the morning. I'm lights out the moment my head hits the pillow.

Thursday morning I wake up before my alarm. I _would_ feel refreshed if it weren't for the stink of wine clinging to my skin and breath. I climb into the shower, scouring myself and emerge feeling decidedly better.

I go to Leland's office first thing to ask about Carter's transfer and she hands me the paper work pre-signed. Feeling like I'm on a bit of a roll, I rush back to my office to fill out the forms.

I've just scribbled in the last signature and I'm about to bring it to P.R when I hear the ping of the office messenger and do a little moonwalk back to my computer. It's from Rebecca.

 _Hi Dr Quinzel, I just wanted to let you know that the Warden has had a last minute cancellation, and he has agreed to see you if you can be here within the next fifteen minutes. Sorry for the short notice.  
_ _-Rebecca Flynn_

 _Thanks Rebecca, I'll be there in five.  
_ _\- Harleen Quinzel, M.D._

I hammer out the reply as quickly as I can then I trade my filled forms for my laptop and race out the door in record time. I've only met the Warden once before, when I first got the job. His handshake had been cold and damp, like an amphibian's. I don't look forward to repeating the experience, but I reason it's a necessary evil.

My knees shake when I reach his door even though I took the elevator. _Silly._ I should be nervous about what happens _after_ I get rid of the straightjacket, not the bit that happens before. Steeling myself, I knock.

Rebecca's pretty twenty-something face appears in the crack between the frame and the door, then the gap widens and her full form appears, all the right curves tucked into a pencil skirt and button down. Her bottle blonde, but flattering hair is twisted into a smooth chignon and a dab of color accentuates her full lips. _Damn,_ Rebecca.

" Oh!" She laughs, a mellifluous and affected sound. "Dr. Quinzel, you certainly made good time."

"My office isn't far." Just three floors down. Rebecca takes in my plain slacks and rumbled blazer with some disdain and I pique.

" Yes. Well. You can go right on in, he's expecting you." I pass her, but pull up with my hand on the doorknob, unable to resist.

"And Rebecca-I'd love some coffee, lots of milk and sugar."

" Uh-"

"Thanks so much, you're a peach!" I say it with a saccharine smile and slip through the door into Finchie's office before she can reply.

"Dr. Quinzel!" I turn to the adenoidal voice speaking my name from the oaken desk on the other side of the room. The Warden is back-lit by the windows that look out over Arkham's expansive courtyard, where the cemetery pushes further into the tree-line on the east side every year, and the tide laps against the steep rocky cliff to the left. Arkham itself only seems to get smaller and fuller-but not like it's running out of room. More like it's trying to crush us.

Finch wears a sweater vest under a pretentious tweed blazer, his chestnut hair graying at the temples and the beginnings of a paunch starting on his lower abdomen.

"Thank you so much for meeting with me, Warden Finch."

He strides towards grasping my hand before I've had time to offer it, and shakes it between two of his. By the way his eyes drag down my body, I'm starting to think Rebecca's pencil skirt was less of a fashion statement and more of a pay raise. I want to yank my hand away but I don't. _You're on a mission Harleen. Use it._

"Please, call me Thomas-can I call you Harleen?"

 _Yeesh. Poor Rebecca._

"Uh-sure…Thomas." I offer with an undeniably uncomfortable smile. He seems to take it as bashful and proffers a rather indecorous smile in return.

"Please! Make yourself comfortable." I take a seat in the chair in front of his desk and he takes his seat across from me. "Now, what can I help you with?" He wets his lips. _Not anything you're thinking about right now._

"In light of the recent tragedy," I begin with some trepidation, " I thought you might like some good news. I've been working with patient 0801 for a little over a month now, and I've been getting some really unprecedented results." I open my laptop. " I have some footage of-"

"That wont be necessary _sweetie_ ," The skin bunches around his eyes. "Just give me the highlights."

"Err-well, I've been getting the kind of results that would look great in an article-as I'm sure Rebecca mentioned there's been interest from the A.P.A- but of course its still early stages." There's that flash of interest. _Yahtzee!_ He looks like he can see the funding. "I came to _you_ ," I continue, cringing inwardly as the creep swells a little. _Necessary evils._ "Because I thought you would understand how _crucial_ it is for this research that I have access to as _much_ information as possible."

"Of course." He says to my chest.

"Not being able to read his body language has been a real _barrier_. I'd like permission to have him unjacketed for our sessions."

The lecherous Wardens eyes snap back up to my face.

"I fully support this project, but _he_ has an _extremely_ violent history here, _especially_ with doctors."

"I understand, but I think that if you watch the footage you'll see that we have a special relationship."

"…What do you mean by _that?_ " His mouth pulls down on one side.

I almost blush. _Get a grip Harls._

"He's mocked, ridiculed or down right abused _everyone_ else who sat down in that room with him." The grimace on Finchie's face tells me he's been on the receiving end of that behaviour more than once. "He actually _talks_ to me. I think that he respects me for whatever reason, and that's enough for me to feel comfortable taking this risk in order to push further with my work." I lean forward, straightening my arms to push up my betties. _It can't hurt._ "And of course his ankles would still be chained, and there's a guard in the room at all times." Not that Bradley could do much if push came to shove. But the warden's greedy peepers are back on target and he seems to be coming around to the idea.

"And you think this will really make a difference?"

" _Absolutely_. This will unearth a _goldmine_ of data."

"Well…" He runs a hand through his hair. " The greatest scientific discoveries always come with a little risk, right?"

"Right you are!" I respond, a little too emphatic.

"You know what Harleen? _Ok!_ You're a very impressive young lady, and I hope to see you do well here at Arkham- So don't mess it up!" He exclaims like it's a joke, and laughs at himself.

"…Ha-ha, I promise I wont!"

" I'll have Rebecca fill out the paper work, she'll fax you a copy."

" Thank you _so_ much, Thomas." I say, getting up. I can't get out the door fast enough but I try not to let it show.

"Oh, and Harleen?"

"Yes?" My hand itches to turn the knob and slip out but I force a pause. _Do it for the research._

"I hope you know you can come to me _anytime_ \- if you have a problem, or you, you know, just need to talk. "

 _I'm sure._ His smile is the kind one might see at a Hooter's.

"Sure, thanks! Uh-bye Thomas!" I blurt, making my exit with an urgency I hope doesn't come across as blatantly rude. I give Rebecca a sympathetic nod as I pass her, and then giggle when I see her turn back to the sink and pour out what must have been my coffee.

In the empty hallway I allow myself a quick happy dance, and, necessary evils checked off, I head to my first appointment with the kind of smile a dead puppy couldn't turn.

I celebrate my victory with take-out Kung Pao and head out to the roofs because I know I can't be idle.

I feel nervous again, I feel like tomorrow is the first day of school. Logically I know it wont be _that_ different. He'll just have a wider wingspan, but it still removes a degree of separation. I feel like a meteor just about to enter the atmosphere, and hurtling full speed. And I don't want to stop. Maybe I'm not afraid of the heat or the fire, maybe I'm just afraid of what it would mean to become dust. Who am I without my context? I honestly don't have an answer.

I grunt, touching down with a little too much tension and jarring my knees, but I don't stop to work it out like I should, pushing through the cramp as I sprint for my next vault. If anything, the clenching pain spurs me on- clearing my eyes and forcing me into the moment. I am hyperaware of every bead of sweat on my skin, every engine and car horn, every lover's quarrel and every sports fan yelling at a TV screen. So when I hear a woman crying, pleading, the sound hits me like the brick wall I've just scaled. I race toward it, to the eastern edge of the building, and look down.

A young girl-maybe 16 or 17, stands pressed back against the side of the building by a much older man, who wavers drunkenly. Her strawberry print pyjama bottoms drag in the filth spilling from a discarded bag of trash at her feet. She was probably just trying to take out the garbage when she was _accosted_ by this beer soaked _asswhip_ from the bar under her apartment. He leans in and tries to kiss her neck, but when pushes him away he _punches_ her. _In the gut_.

Before I realize it, I've scaled down the balconies on the opposite side of the building and I'm sprinting around the other side so I can get behind him. I manage to soundlessly grab a metal trash can lid, though her crying makes my vision tunnel and my hands shake. When I round the corner, I see he has broken her nose and he's trying to rip her shirt off. I don't waste any time in whacking him hard in the back of the head, and the ethanol depresses his reflexes so he smacks his head against the pavement when he goes down. As a doctor, I know that this man is likely already suffering massive contusions, especially with the alcohol thinning his blood. He will almost definitely have permanent brain damage. _If_ he lives- _and I don't give a shit_.

I crouch down to the girl, who is now sitting in her pile of trash, head tucked between her knee.

" Hi sweetie, what's your name?" I use my most soothing therapist voice though the rage still lashes at my insides.

" A-" A strangled little sob escapes her, the kind that builds like a tumor in your throat. "Anna." She manages, wiping furiously at her eyes.

"My name is Harleen- I'm going to help you up ok?" she nods and I offer my hands. She winces when she stands but her legs are steady and her face steeled against any more tears that might try to escape. _Tough kid._ "I'm a doctor, I could take a look if you-"

" No, Its ok. I –I live right upstairs." She hiccoughs. Her eye has now swollen completely shut.

"Do you want me to walk you up?"

"No, I'm ok." She limps away, shoulders hunched and taught. When she stops to pull out her keys, she turns back to me. "Thank you" Her voice cracks with her pain. I can tell she means it, but I'm a stranger and she's barely holding it together. I get it. She disappears into her building.

I turn to the man who assaulted her. In a moment of impulsive rage, my foot drives into his side, and then I do it again because it feels good, and one more time because _he deserves it_. When my head clears enough to think over the ripping of air in and out of my lungs, I check his pulse. It palpates weakly against my middle and index fingers, but its there. I almost want to ram his head into the ground just _one more time_.

I don't.

Then there's a bust of laughter and singing, two figures coming into focus as they enter the mouth of the alley from the bar, and I've already skittered around the corner to make my way back up to familiar territory.

My chest is heaving and the vicious energy threatening to tear me apart has started to melt, turning into something much more pleasant. That piece of _dirt_ might not be gone but he'll _never_ be the same. And it felt _so damn good_ to see him go down, to feel my boot strike bone through all that lard. The thought puts a smile on my face, and I know that's _fucked up_ , trust me, I'm a psychiatrist.

But I also have a bit of an… _addictive_ personality. That moment of control and total, thoughtless serenity-that was a _really_ good hit. The kind that I'll let hide beneath my logic though I know its incongruence. So I tuck it away and focus on how raw and new I feel, how every nerve under my skin seems to thrum, and I take off again. It feels like flying.

Instead of crawling into the shower or getting straight into bed when I get home as usual, I walk into my closet and head for the now quite dishevelled Ashley section. I know exactly what I'm looking for, the blood-red matte taffeta pulling at me from memory. When I finally unearth it, I almost put it right back. Not because it isn't beautiful-its stunning. The cut is old fashioned- a high, bibbed neckline and a wide, ¾ length skirt, but the _colour_ …. I would just seem like a silly little girl looking for attention if I wore it.

I realize that isn't _quite_ right when I try it on.

I _don't_ look like a little girl- I look vibrant and _powerful_. I look like I felt in that alleyway, and for a moment I see the would-be rapist sprawled face down. My reflection grins back at me, her cheeks flushed and eyes like flares.

 _She_ wouldn't give a shit what she looked like or what anyone thought. _She's_ having _way_ too much fun.

So though I still feel like I'm in costume, though I know I'll itch under the stares, I will wear the dress. Not because I'm stupid enough to think I can distract him with my _feminine wiles_ , but because he said I wouldn't, that I'm trying to squeeze myself into a box. I'm going to show him that I'm not afraid to climb out of it, and that I've already lifted the lid.

I fall asleep with a racing mind and my viscera crammed up into my throat, but I fall asleep _ready_.

I notice the looks I get as I head into work Friday morning but they aren't quite as virulent, they don't nest quite as deeply as they did on Tuesday. In order to provide myself a certain degree of amenity, I've forgone the makeup and my hair is swept up into a neat ponytail.

This week I don't go down to meet him at the cells. Instead, I go straight to the therapy room and take my seat. I prop my clipboard on my crossed knees, arranging my skirt over them, and I begin to write. It's all nonsense of course, but I format it to look like patient notes at a glance.

The creak of the door is a galvanized jolt though I could hear him babbling at Bradley from the moment the elevator doors opened.

 _Game time._ I keep writing.

" _Bon Journo_ , miss Quinzel, I see you were too busy _doodling_ to grace me with your presence on my _arduous_ journey... I'm _hurt_ doc, really! I was just starting to trust you enough to tell me about how my daddy used to- _Ooops_!- _HA_!" He laughs. I continue to write. "You've already heard that one haven't you?" His tone becomes more venomous the longer I remain unreactive.

When I finish my 'sentence', I flip the page over just slow enough for him to see it but not to be able to read what it said. Then I return the clipboard and pen to my bag. I can practically hear his frown, but I still haven't looked at him yet.

 _Keep it up Harls, this is a strong start- you know how much he likes surprises. Turn that frown upside down._

I turn to our watcher.

"Bradley, could you please assist my patient out of his straight jacket?"

The guard stares dumbly at me for a lengthy few seconds before the abhorrence finally registers in his features.

I try not to obviously anticipate J's reaction though I've been looking forward to it all day, but the brilliant flash of his grin in my periphery is still a charge to my ambition.

" Yeah, hop to it _sweetums!_ " The clown bends to plant a devious peck on the hapless guard's cheek. "Help me slip into something a little more _comfortable._ " He purrs in his ear, and Bradley jerks away with a garbled cry of indignity.

"No mam! Absolutely not-" he sputters, still watching J like he might try to cop a feel, and struggling to keep hold of his already questionable decorum.

I shift my shoulders back, and look him straight in the beady little grey eyes.

"I have the warden's express consent. Would you like to bother him _right now_ Bradley? He's been _very_ busy this week, one of his employees just _died_."

" No mam. " He makes a face like a cod and becomes suddenly enraptured by his scuffed boots.

"Then will you _please_ help the joker out of his straight jacket?"

" Are you sur-"

" _Help him out of the straight jacket_." I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes for effect.

"Yes mam." He gives his assent but his widened, dubitable eyes say that he feels the action is akin to writing a suicide note. Still, he begins to loosen the buckles. J wiggles his bottom impatiently at the mortified guard who seems to be _really_ struggling with the straps.

" _Yeesh_ Brad! Your wife must be a _very_ patient woman." J sucks his teeth.

I clamp down on my lip to smother a giggle and plaster on my best chastising expression. Bradley is heart attack red at this point, but he eventually gets around to freeing my patient.

J makes a show of flicking his wrists about, as if his hands could have fallen asleep on the walk from his cell. I roll my eyes because it seems like the right way to act, but the therapy room suddenly feels too small for such an extensive being, the space between his limbs and behind his fingers seems to buzz with his absence. I try not to shrink back, focusing on the patterns of woven silk that make up the folds of skirt under my hands.

"You can leave the ankle cuffs. And chain them to the wall." I command, _maybe_ trying to compensate for my giggle. Bradley nods and does as he's told, clearly having had enough insurrection for one day.

"What _gives_ doc? The gift of freedom and you, _all wrapped up_ like Christmas morning!" He balls his fists and hikes up his shoulders, nose scrunching with his grin like he's just found me under a tree. "Its not my birthday- _is_ it?" He giggles, folding himself languidly into his chair. "Who knows? _I_ certainly don't."

"Because you don't remember- or were you abandoned? They left you outside a fire station, _didn't they?_ Were you adopted? _No_ \- foster care." The words that tumble excitedly from my mouth are coloured with his distinctive prosodic flavour and he grins toothily.

I absently rub my neck but catch myself at the same time he does. I do away with the nervous gesture since he seemed to be relishing it so thoroughly.

"What's with the sudden _chutzpah,_ Doc?" Chirps J smarmily, elbowing at Bradley, "I want some of what _she's_ having." He gibes out of the side of his mouth to the guard, who seems to be striving for an uncharacteristic vigilance now that his charge is untethered.

I know _exactly_ what's with the Chutzpah, but there's no way I'll air that here. Time to switch tactics.

"Maybe it's my new wrapping."

"Did you wear that little number when you spoke to Finchie?" he points one of those long white fingers at me, drawing it down through the air "I'm sure he would have _loved that_ …" I feel an itch crawl up my spine and absently grimace at the memory of the warden's lecherous gaze. " But _noo_ that would be _too much fun_ for you just yet, wouldn't it, _pet_?" He quirks his head to the side in that now familiar way.

 _How's almost killing a man for fun?_

I almost say it out loud but I suffocate the thought, ice settling into my stomach at the near admission. I wanted to _boast._

 _"_ What did you promise him?" His voice has turned soft and smoky. " _Certainly_ not my good behaviour- ha!" He slaps his knee. " You _know_ you could _never_ promise _that_." He strokes his chin for a second then lurches forward, putting his elbows on the table to support his weight. I jerk back in response, my spine jarring against the chair. "You took the publicity angle, didn't you? You want to write even _more_ fairy tales about me-don't you Quinzel? How _delightful_." His smile creeps across his face and if possible those verdant iris's seem to become more concentrated.

With my statement laid out on the table it starts to look pathetic, but I'm not going to give just yet, so I steel myself instead.

"What can I say? You make a good story." I hope the incessant quivering of my nerves isn't broadcasted with my repartee.

He laughs, cheeks scrunching up between his fingers. Then his hands slam down on the table top with a deafening metal boom that the tiny room traps and amplifies. Somehow, despite the way every muscle in my back jumps, I manage only to blink in response.

"What kinda' story will I be this time Doc?" He jumps to his feet, palms still on the table so that he leans over me and I have to crane my neck back. Bradley lurches forward, going pale when the Joker gets right in my face, but I hold up a hand to stop him.

J's lips pull back to show even more teeth, dimples I hadn't before noticed making tiny furrows in his extended smile.

"Horror?" He steps back, grin turning from base amusement to picador menace. "True crime? _Romance?_ " He slaps a hand to his heart, and presses the back of the other to his brow, looking up to the heavens and heaving a great sigh before dropping the act. _Feeling awfully theatrical aren't we?_ I have to wonder if it has anything to do with my earlier neglect. "Alas, I am no Romeo- my talents _really_ shine in comedy." He leaps backwards onto his chair with out checking its position- thankfully it's bolted down or it might have been knocked over- him with it. Unable to straighten to full height he flings his arms open, long, thin legs bent so as not to smack his head against the ceiling.

"I _am_ that merry wanderer of the night. I jest to Oberon, and _make him smile…_ " The articulate English accent that bursts forth from his mouth has my eyebrows attempting to join my hairline. He kicks out a leg and tips forward, taking an audacious step down off of his pedestal. He drops into a crouch, fingers hooked like claws.

"And sometime _lurk_ I in a gossip's bowl, In very likeness of a roasted crab," He draws himself up again, into such an elegant ballroom posture that one would be hard pressed to recall his previous contortion. He spins like prince charming just before midnight, and dips an invisible lady. Only the scars and his ever-devilish mug hint as to his true nature.

"And when she drinks, against her lips I bob And on her withered dewlap pour the ale." The homily he delivers with immaculate elocution, effortless poise betraying his intimate acquaintance with the monologue. I clench my slackened jaw to correct it. Should I really be surprised?

"The wisest aunt, telling the saddest tale,  
Sometime for three-foot stool mistaketh me;  
Then slip I from her bum, down topples she,  
And 'tailor' cries, and falls into a cough;  
And then the whole quire hold their hips and la- HA- Laugh, HA HA HA!" He barely manages to finish the sentence before breaking character with raucous chicanery, clutching at his lean torso like the trickster's quire and collapsing back into his seat, legs stretched out under the table. I unconsciously tuck my feet back so as not to touch his, for some reason the idea of our feet coming into contact seems inappropriate.

"Puck would be proud- I didn't have you pegged as a Shakespeare fan." I clap, allowing a genuine smile to pull my lips from surprise to esteem.

"Not likely, I've always found the old bastard _incredibly_ long winded and insufferably self-indulgent." He dismisses the thought with a flick of the wrist. I come close to scoffing - sounds an _awful_ lot like a certain murderous clown I know.

"I could spin yarns around the codger without breaking a sweat." He brags.

I smirk, tipping my chin up for a touch of repudiation.

"Well then, by all means…" I spread my hands out before me in invitation.

"Oh _Harley_ you tricky minx. Trying to _slide_ under my skin are we? HA! _Trying to kid the clown?_ You know what they say about curiosity- I don't want to have to tell you again…" His reprimand trails off into a maniacal giggle

I cover my mouth and fake a yawn. He responds with that mouth twitch I noticed in our first session. Interesting- haven't seen that in a while.

"I'm just feeling a little _sleepy_." I pout, but my words are gibing. " _Come on_ , don't you have a bedtime story for me?"

He narrows his eyes. I can tell that my played indifference this session is annoying him, but by the dilation of his pupils I know it was the right choice. It's a drive, the attention. He needs it- after all if you tell a joke and there's no one around to laugh was it really funny? Yes, the Joker is a bit of a narcissist but hey- I like to listen! He's _interesting_. And if it turns out to be fodder for a book, that's not so bad, is it? I just need to find the right balance, the sweet spot lying between spurn and veneration.

"Well, since you've been so kind as to _unwrap_ me," Pink tongue appears to run under white teeth. " I may as well treat you to a tale." He crosses his legs with a flourish, and folds his hands across his lap. "It aaaall started one _unseasonably_ warm November night." His expression settles into one of patriarchal comfort, and I can almost smell the woody musk of a crackling fire at his back and the cloying burn of a heavy bottomed tumbler of whiskey in his hand. "This was just after Black Friday you see, and I was feeling a little _blue_." He reaches up and pulls down the corners of his mouth with his index fingers. The action is so childish that a giggle pushes past my gated lips "I try _so hard_ to pull people out of the day-to-day grind-give em' a little excitement! Uncle joker isn't _all_ murders and executions! But that year I was feeling particularly bitter. People get so caught up in the _purchasing_ , the _possession_ -the _posturing._ Its all so tragically mundane, so drearily misguided. _Things_ are temporary, even diamonds can be destroyed, but people still think they'll last _till death do us part._ They don't know who they are without _stuff_ , they don't know what to strive for in the absence of tangible incentive. – Ho-ho-Hey Brad!" J twists around to grip the back of his chair and grin at the guard, whose shoulder's slump inward. The gesture is hilariously defeated. "What to do _you_ want for Christmas?" Booms J in his best Santa voice. Bradley looks to me as if for permission to answer and I nod with no small degree of curious amusement. _Go ahead little Timmy, go sit on Santa's lap._

"Um, I guess I've been wanting a new power drill." Bradley's words are cautious-of course they are. He knows they're about to be sliced up and collaged.

"HA! Well, I'm sure the ol' lady will appreciate that given the other er- _shortcomings_ we've unearthed today." He wiggles his eyebrows at the haggard man. " Why do you want the power drill?"

The ruddy flesh covering Bradley's prominent brow bone crumples under his confusion.

"To build stuff?" Shrugs the older man.

The Joker sighs, and flicks an exasperated look towards me.

"And why do you 'build stuff' " He slows down, over enunciating the words like Bradley's just learning English. Another shrug.

"Makes me happy."

J's hands swivel on his wrists in a hurry up motion.

"What _is_ happy Mr. Bradley?" The words squeeze out between his teeth and the edge to his voice has become sharp and impatient.

Our chaperone opens his mouth and then shuts it. He opens it again to release a grunt that might have become a lackluster answer if J didn't whirl back to face me, hands shooting into the air and pulling his too-short uniform sleeves back from his wrists.

"He doesn't even know! He thinks you can find happiness in a power tool! And yet _every single year_ on November 1st, _it_ all starts-the music, the commercials, the compulsive shopping- and for what? So your mother in Law might hate you a little less? For a promotion? _To get your dick sucked_? BAH! Useless! _Meaningless._ People won't do anything they don't already want to-not unless you _make_ them." One needle-like finger jabs into his thigh with bruising force. "The gifts, the cards, the wrapping- _the bribery_ \- it wont get you anywhere you can't go with little creativity and a stapler –HA- doesn't even have to be a swingline! So I thought to myself, Joker old boy, why not give em' what they _really_ want- the one thing they don't know how to ask for. Why not give em' the gift of _clarity_?"

He's not even in the building anymore. Though his gaze is directed at me he's seeing something else, and judging by the near profane gluttony that animates his leer and pinches at the skin under my dress, he is seeing something bloody and brutal. Something that would force bile to the gullet of any _normal_ person. And yet my hands grip at the rim of my seat, palms slippery with sweat, levator scapulae trying to make my shoulders touch my ears in the heady buzz of my anticipation.

"It wasn't hard to track down the geezer they were going to _stuff_ into a Santa suit for the parade. It was even easier to convince him to hand over the role-" His hands float palms up, fingers tickling at the air above them. "A fake beard is a great way to hide my more uh- _Distinctive_ features." he chuckles, and strokes his chin.

I realize I _know_ this story-I watched it unfold last year in a live newscast. I remember sitting in my mother's living room in my pajamas, Lucy yammering on about some special edition ornament she bought at sears, my mother talking over her about what a good deal it was. I remember trying to just shut them out and focus on the stupid giant Christmas tree onscreen. And I remember becoming completely oblivious to them, my breakfast, and my need to blink the moment _He_ came on screen. But this, the story from _his_ mouth is entirely new and utterly exhilarating. Everybody knows he doesn't like to rehash the past- even the parts he's most proud of.

"I think my favorite part comes just before the curtains are drawn." Muses J. He inhales deeply, eyelids fluttering shut, and only with them closed do I realize how little he blinks. "When the audience is still naïve, when _all_ they have is expectation and the stage is _ripe_ with g- _lorious_ possibility." His lids snap open and his eyes gouge into me. "That feeling is eternal, and _god,"_ The word is as reverent as it would be from a lifelong catholic in the confessional, and I feel its resonance in my chest making my hands quiver. I hide them in the folds of my skirt, suddenly very aware of its usefulness. "It was _delicious_ that day. All of Gotham's children lined up to clap for _me_! I did a much better job than that _other_ quack- after all who's jollier than the joker? It was a perfect day really, _fresh_ snow unmarred by car exhaust; cigarette butts and neglected dog shit swept away under that _lovely_ white blanket. It was all I could do not to pull out my gun and start painting the town red- you'd be hard pressed to find a more _breathtaking_ sight than _blood_ on _virgin snow_." He croons, chin tucking as his mouth sets into that crooked Machiavellian tilt I've come to recognize as his deepest expression of exaltation. "You know, you look a bit like that today _Harley-_ I mean _really_ , would it kill you to get a tan?" He snickers. I try a grimace but dimples show through. "Alas," He continues, thick with melodramatic nostalgia. "delayed gratification is the name of the game, the candy is _never_ as sweet if you don't wait until you'd simply _die_ without it." His tongue once again brushes his lip and I'm captivated by its progress across his ever-stretching smile.

"So I waited until the very end, the _grand finale!"_ He is back on his feet in less than a second, arms unfolding like a magician brandishing a handsaw. "As I'm sure you know Quinzel," He wags a finger at me. "Tradition dictates that the parade _must_ end with the lighting of whatever _ridiculous_ tree that over-grown orphan _Wayne_ donates. I always thought it was sort of lackluster, so this year I wanted to make it a _real_ show stopper. By that time, the GCPD's finest had made it to the front of the line - all trussed up in their dress uniforms," He puffs out his chest and grabs the collar of his jumpsuit like the lapels of a fine suit. "Really, it was _adorable."_ He milks the word for its sarcasm, eyes rolling like prize wheel. "All of those _bright_ young men and women holding rank, saluting _me_ \- HA! Can you imagine?" I mean that _is_ pretty funny. " So, I _merrily_ made my way up the city hall steps to a _marvelous_ big band rendition of Here comes Sandy clause" J becomes a Marshall, marching on the spot in front of my desk, head bouncing back and forth between his shoulders and a goofy grin plastered on. " I couldn't have asked for a better entrance!" He proclaims. Then he draws himself up to full height and folds one arm elegantly behind his back, once more the sovereign narrator.

"I had some time to _kill_ before hitting the switch- of course the games couldn't begin until my better half arrived. I had set up a little _game_ to keep him busy you see, couldn't have him showing up too early." his eyes crinkle fondly even as his smile becomes sly and tight. "Really, the guy's a _pathological_ workaholic," He shakes his head in exasperation, orange hair and green hair falling onto his forehead and clashing with those green eyes. "I keep him telling he's going to crack one of these days, but you'll never meet someone so stubborn." He wags a finger, and by the good-natured tone of his reprimand one might think he were speaking about his wife of 50 years rather than his arch nemesis. "Then again the guy wouldn't be half a barrel of monkeys if he weren't so tightly wound- would he? All it takes is a _nice_ little Christmas card carved into a Krank Co. executive's forehead and he's set for _hours of fun!_ You don't even have to put explosives in _that_ many toys- _he'll check them all_! That's the beauty of a perfectionist- they cant resist a _mess_." The self-proclaimed mess beams, brows arching with pride as he jabs his thumbs at his chest.

"Luckily I am abso-lutely, positively BRILLIANT at wasting time!" He does a slapdash spin on one foot, remaining limbs flung without care and forcing Bradley to duck in order to avoid being smacked. J does a little skip out of his whirl and slinks into a prowl looping around his chair and back towards me, he pins me with that devious stare. I feel like I've been spotted by a wild animal and I don't know whether to run or play dead, my smile going taught across my teeth. The animal flashes his incisors. " So I _Slithered and slunk with a smile most unpleasant_ -He-he" he chortles and I surprise myself with a beam at the reference to my _very_ Christmas movie, picturing him rather more covered in that electric green hair.

Some corner of my mind- a corner that I would rather subjugate than analyze- fancies me as Cindy loo, all bows, wide eyes and a pink nightgown to boot.

J inquisitively tracks the sheepishness as it passes through my features and I pray that he can't _actually_ read minds. "- all the way up to _Mr. Mayor Hill_ ," The name is slurred with gaudy insolence and a snooty grimace.

I rediscover my breath, grateful that he seems to have moved on.

"and I put my _very_ favorite switchblade to his throat." One slender finger draws a line across his jugular, and my hair stands on end. "Once the beard came off there was quite an uproar- pigs squealing and whatnot-" He begins to pace in front of me, playing a psychotic allegro in the air with restless fingers. "but Santa always has his _little_ _helpers_ on hand for just such an occasion. Its amazing what a couple of hostages can do for a party, isn't it? Usually makes for a _very_ respectful audience, but the mayor was squirming an _awful_ lot, so I had to set an example. He was _much_ more obedient after I turned one of his ears into an ornament- and the tree did need a little more _pizazz_ , so no harm no foul really!" He shrugs with a chuckle at my unfortunately audible gulp, and then sighs. "Still, it did cut into my speech- slicing through cartilage can be a real pain, _especially_ if you didn't bring the right knife- so I had to make it short and sweet." He steps up to my desk like it's a podium, and clears his throat.

" _Ladies and germs, boys and girl,_ Said I, _Santa Clause is officially in town!"_ He raises his arms and nods as if humbly accepting applause. " _Now you better not pout, you better not cry- because if you do, you'll all be riding the lead express straight to the morgue-_ HA!" He seems to implode with a fit of crackling laughter that ends just as abruptly as it began. When his eyes clear, that casual amusement has been sucked into the abyss that yowls for carnage inside his skull. I can only imagine what he sees in his minds eye, and I tell myself it's a purely professional curiosity.

"Unfortunately one of my _Laugh-tenants_ decided it would be _fine_ to interrupt me, yammering on about the bat showing up _-_ can you believe it? _Sooo_ hard to find good help these days! Naturally I shot the him in the knee." He waves the statement away. "Still, as the _guest of honor_ was _finally_ in attendance I couldn't keep my frown upside down! Not even with the helicopter drowning me out- and _that_ is why you _always_ bring a megaphone." He raises an eyebrow at me like he expects me to write it down for future reference. "I had the _perfect_ view from the heli-ladder; hoards of panicking imbeciles _nearly_ trampling Batsy as he carried mayor hill away from _my_ tree… of course _he_ got it. But _they_ ran straight for it, bleating all the way." His hands are planted on the metal surface of the desk now, and he is jarringly still though he seems to become taller right before my eyes. "He _is_ only one man after all- he couldn't warn everyone, and that's the next best thing about perfectionists: they can't accept a no-win situation, _and they'll bleed themselves dry for it_." He's not smiling anymore; the jesting grin has become a vicious snarl.

I feel a bit like my body is trying to become one with my chair though my attention is entirely captured. I'm not sure I'd look away even if he were holding a blowtorch to my eye.

" _Sorry for the hasty exit_ , I declared _, as you know Santa's very busy this time of year- but don't worry kiddies, I won't leave you without a little stocking stuffer!_ And then I pulled out my detonator. _"_ He takes a pause and the air seems empty without his voice. I can't help but stare at his mouth as though I might be able to spot his next words before he pushes them out. I catch the slightest upward hitch where twin scars extend his lips, and I can feel his delirium like I'm standing next to a gas leak. When he finally speaks, I am near ready to beg for his words and he utters them so softly that I know they wont be picked up on the video feed. These words are only for me.

"There is _nothing_ quite as carnal as the sight of blood and fire." His voice is rich and purple and I drown in it, vision paring down until the room and Bradley and even my body disappears. "I can _see_ it Quinzel- I can _feel_ it hot on my skin and falling down on all those broken survivors. Like the first snow of the year in festive _red_. The way the heat of the explosion beats against your face and _even though it burns_ you _don't dare_ waste a second. Have you ever seen a human kebab on a pine bow-skewer? Have you ever seen intestinal confetti? _Destruction_ is close to _godliness_ you know-as close as a guy like _me_ can get, and it is _just_ as addictive as heroin." I know that my mouth hangs open; I know that whatever I am showing him in this moment will be used against me. And yet I can't do a thing but force my ragged breath as I am cooked alive inside my red dress.

"If you don't start using that tongue I might be tempted to cut it out." He's falling back into his chair and clasping his hands behind his head, laughing again like nothing just happened. "Not so _sleepy_ now, are we _cupcake?_ " And just like that, one very smug leer breaks the spell. _Jackass._

"Eh, I've heard that one before." I shrug, but he already knows and it makes me prickle with indignation. The arch of his eyebrows taunts me. "That's all the time we have for today, thank you." I hide under the heavy shroud of my doctor voice because really, it's more than all the time we had. I silenced my timer 5 minutes before it went off. He knows that too, and I grit my teeth as I stand, giving him a curt nod before turning my back.

" You are _welcome_." He purrs just before I exit the room, and even though I know I did good today, even though I got lots of useable material, I can't drown out the little voice chanting _danger_. I cannot for the life of me erase the image of his face against a flaming backdrop, hair whipped out of its coiffure by an artificial hurricane wind, red spatter marring his white skin as that rictus splits his cheeks. And lying in bed that night, mummified in my comforter, I cannot forget the joy and the sadism, like honey and atropine on my lips begging me to take just one little taste. I think I already have.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes** : Sorry for the hiatus guys! I've been visiting friends so I haven't had much time to write- I promise I haven't abandoned you, I have big plans for this fic.

Also, possibly to your dismay (and mine) our beloved clown prince noodle does not make a personal appearance in this chapter. Harley needed some time for personal development and also I think this chapter is pretty fun, because we do get to meet another one of my favourite rogues- I hope I do her justice!

As always thank you so much for your lovely reviews, they really keep me going.

Now, with no further ado and endless love,

enjoy 3

 **CHAPTER 6:** The manipulative bird gets the worm

Waking up feels like I'm trying to dig myself out of a sandy hole, grains pouring back down into my face and eyes each time I try to scoop them away. Yesterday's session seems so surreal that I can't even really organize the chronology of the memory. I spend a few hours in a zombie like state, shambling into rooms and promptly forgetting why I'd entered in the first place, grunting at my eggs like they should cook themselves, and generally bumping into anything even _remotely_ close me. I plant myself in front of the TV, and stick to the very first channel that pops up when I turn it on. Which is of course, the news. There's a story about a two headed kitten, another about a plane crash in Hawaii. I register everything passively, information slides cleanly through my consciousness like a Q-tip going in one ear and out the other. Nothing _really_ registers until the suddenly deafening cacophony of my phone ringer nearly sends me shooting through the ceiling.

For a second I assume it must be Lucy calling about Sunday dinner, but then I remember we aren't speaking. _What a relief_ I think, even as an incongruent knot forms in my throat. I don't really want to pick up, but my hand goes through the motions anyways.

"Hello" I manage, prompted by the static on the line.

"Harley? You sound like the _crypt keeper_ -have you been smoking opium or something?" Its Ash, she's never been one to beat around the bush.

"Yeah, I've just been having…a weird day." I sigh.

"My favourite! Can I come be weird with you?" She tempts.

I nibble on my lip and glance at the files I was intending to go through today-if I could just snap out of this funk and _get to work_ …

"I'm not sure, I really need to get some work done and-"

" Come _on_ Harls. I know you. If you're being weird you just need to take a break and come back to it after. You know you wanna… I'll buy you Ben and Jerry's…"

"Ben and Jerry's?" I sound like I've just been told I'm going to Disney land. She's right; I need to step back.

"You betcha! " She assures. "I'll head over in 10, cool?"

"Ice cold." I say, like dweeb.

"Sub-zero?" she asks.

"Cryogenic baby, _Yeah_!" I'm not sure when I became Austin Powers, but it's too late to take it back. Either way, Ash is laughing as I hang up. I feel significantly more awake now, so I straighten up a bit and put on some coffee.

As soon as I open the door, Ash fills my apartment with her chatter, shoving two pints of ice cream and a frozen pizza at me before digging into her massive tote bag and pulling out DVD after DVD like she's Mary Poppins.

"…We got the Heathers, we got True Romance, we got Rocky Horror- the good stuff. I figured we could party like it's whatever year it was when we were in grade 11, and come _on_ who ever _actually_ gets over Christian Slater?"

"Defiminly naw-me!" I burble. Yes, I'm already 4 spoonfuls into the cookie dough, and I feel no shame.

What follows is a marathon of giggling, eating, and some occasional shrieking the likes of which I haven't experienced for a very long time. 4 hours in, we lie perpendicular to each other on the sectional, bellies distended and stuffed with junk. JD turns around on screen, brown hair carelessly pushed back in a way that used to make me swoon and claw at Ash's arm. I bought a trench coat just like his because I thought it was cool, and when I was _alone_ I would pretend he had loaned it to me.

"Today was great, _chaos was great!_ Chaos is what killed the dinosaurs, _darling_." Says the murderous teen heartthrob, and for some reason I start to feel _odd_. Too warm, and a bit too light. I start to fidget and the more I watch, the more restless I feel. So when it becomes _completely_ unbearable, I pipe up.

"We should go out or something, what was that place with the- _why_ are you looking at me like that?"

Ash has fixated me, one eye cocked, lips pursed. _Uh oh._ That means she's zeroing in on what she needs to say to get me to do exactly what she wants. I've always told her that she would have made a great psychiatrist.  
She says it would have been a waste of her talents.

"You up for an adventure Harlo?" She says it like a dare, twisting her voice into what might be an approximation of an Italian mobster.

I narrow my eyes at her.

" What kind of adventure are we talking here?" I ask cautiously. I have to at least _pretend_ I'm not just going to go with it. Ash sticks up her index and then she leans backward over the arm of the couch to grab for her tote. After a small and very one-sided wrestling match, she produces a little black plastic card.

"Look what I found in the bathroom of that bar last night. Recognize the insignia?" She places it in my hand.

The shiny surface is emblazoned with a purple umbrella logo.

"Wait, this is like that place on-"

" 5th and Lawrence!" She exclaims. "Flip it over."

On the back of the card there are three little silver letters: VIP.

"So?" She asks, practically bouncing.

"…What?"

"Wanna go? _Tonight?_ "

"Ash _no_ , what if they've cancelled the card already! Or what if there's only a _really_ small number of VIP's and they _know_ we're not _one of them?_ "

"We'll make something up! Come on, let's do something _fun,_ just like old times!" She pleads, and then steels her expression. "But I'm going- whether or not you come with me."

"Godamn it Ashley." I rub my eyes vigorously.

"I'm not holding a gun to your head!" She throws up her hands to compliment her infuriatingly self-righteous expression.

"okay."

"What was that?" She cups her ear.

"OKAY."

"That's the spirit!" She claps. " _Al_ right. We need alcohol and we need makeup."

 _Well, aren't those some famous last words._

"Ooooh!"I do a little twirl, and the flouncy black skirt blooms out at my hips like a flower. Ash stands behind me in an emerald toned dress with a double-slit skirt. The effect is somewhat luxury gladiator in combination with the strappy heels she has on. Her arms are crossed and she squints at me like she thinks I might be the alien queen in a Harleen suit.

"Not going to make any snide remarks about fitting in at Miss America HQ?" She asks.

"Nope." I deny cheerfully, rather enjoying her wariness. It's not often one has the opportunity to toy with a disgruntled Ash.

"And you're sure you don't want to say something about how its just _not 'you'?"_

I beam, and watch the reaction compound her confusion.

"Nada!" I chirp, peeking over my shoulder at the delicate little button closures going up the mesh back.

"…You're suspiciously lacking in excuses. Come on, shouldn't you be trying to get out of this somehow? Don't get me wrong, I'm _all_ for this, but-" She grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me " _Who are ya, and what did ya do with my gal Harleen?!"_ I laugh at her hard-boiled 50's P.I transformation, and wriggle out of her grip.

"I'm just trying something new- I don't know! Could be a breakthrough, _could be a breakdown_." I half joke. She looks a bit concerned. "But when you get weird you need to take a break right? Switch it up." I offer the explanation with a shrug, like it doesn't mean much, like I don't wonder exactly what I meant by 'break'.

Ash doesn't seem a cent more convinced than I am, but appears to be weighing the possibility of an impending quarter life crisis against what I'm sure she believes to be the beneficial consequences of this new sartorial experimentation.

" …Right." She eventually allows still giving me the side eye, but a half smile crops up beneath her interrogative façade. I take a long swig of my drink and feel the woozy burn rimming my insides despite the rather extensive base of bread and dairy we put down only a few hours ago. _Pace yourself Harleen._ I take another sip and tell myself it's just to calm my nerves, because we're sneaking into some exclusive club and I need to be smooth with a capital S. As if substance use as a coping mechanism is excusable. I take another slip.

"Whoooa there Harley-horse!" cries Ash, confiscating my precious alcohol. "You can get shitfaced after I do your face-paint."

I can feel my eyes bulge. I know what she _means_ \- just makeup, run of the mill, _totally normal makeup_.  
But that's not the first kind that comes to mind.

I laugh but all my ha's are off-key and my he's are oddly syncopated. Ash gives my an odd look but appears to have decided to take my nuttiness at face-value, and drags me into the bathroom.

Ash insists on a town car. I feel oddly self-conscious in the Lincoln, like I'm going to prom or something. My pink haired friend on the other hand, looks perfectly at home. Of course she is, this _is_ her car after all- _her_ family's chauffeur.  
That's right dear reader; our Ashley is loaded- new Gotham money.

Mr. Chen was shipped straight from Guangzhou by Wayne industries 17 years ago, and has remained on staff as a _very_ well compensated second to Lucius Fox. So, little Ash was raised in the lap of luxury, attending top private schools until she insisted on transferring to a public high school, and traded tennis for drama club. She's always rejected the affluenza, finding the trappings of the traditional wealthy lifestyle to be too restrictive, and eventually the Chens' realized that she wasn't going to start making a good impression at dinner parties, deciding instead to indulge their only daughter. And that, folks, is the story of how Ashley Chen can keep a penthouse on a costume designer's salary.

Seeing her trade caviar for canned tuna used to really grind my gears, especially in college when I was running on water and ramen. It isn't that she didn't offer me loans- actually she tried to sneak me bursaries, slipping fifties into my backpack when she thought I wasn't looking, but it never felt right. As much as my stomach ached with hunger, as much as my head pounded with MSG, I was proud of what I was doing, and when I got to the end I was able to say that I did it all on my own. No help. Just grown up Harleen, taking care of her grown-up self.

Still, it's all right to let yourself be treated every once and a while-isn't it?

That's what I'm telling myself when Ash pops a bottle of Moet from the mini-fridge and shoves a flute into my hands, and when she slips the bouncers a few stupidly large bills with a flash of the ill-gotten VIP card. I hold my breath, trying my best to look casual and bored, like I do this every Saturday night, but the bouncer waves through a door next to the main one the moment Ash pulls out the plastic. _Powerful little piece,_ I think ,linking arms with my taller friend so that I don't stumble too obviously as we head into the darkness.

Emerging from the entryway, we find ourselves in a 1920's style saloon complete with overstuffed leather armchairs and dark wood paneling to match the bar. A host meets us at the door to take our coats, asking the 'missus' if we would kindly wait for our valet, and would we care for a drink or a canapé before the show? Ash orders Glenfiddich and I salivate over the menu for about 10 minutes before asking for a plate of calamari and some tiramisu. I'm so excited when it arrives, that I forget where we are and regress to the etiquette of a 6 year old. My lack of decorum amuses Ash to no end-especially when I shove two battered tentacles under my upper lip and tell her that I 'vant to sucker her blood'.

"Erm- Misses Quaide and Chamberlain?" I almost correct the speaker until I see Ash nod, and then remember choosing those names furtively before exiting the car.

"My name is Mo, and I'll be your Valet for the evening. Would you like me to show you to your seats? I can have someone bring down your food." Mo seems a bit green- early 20's, a little too tall for his dress pants, and a little too eager. I like the guy. Ash sighs, checking her watch, and poor Mo breaks a sweat.

"I _suppose."_ She finally allows, clearly enjoying his discomfort.

His proffered hand she ignores entirely as she slides out of our booth. I roll my eyes. For someone who claims such distaste for the aristocratic persona, she plays the part like an old pro.

" _Thank_ you." I offer with as much warmth as I can, making point to take his hand when I step out, and Mo gives me a tight but appreciative smile. He leads us down a stairwell on the far end of the room, our heels clacking on the industrial iron steps. We emerge onto a curved hallway hewn in the same dark paneling as the walls in the bar above. Silver filigree sconces cradle deep purple candles along the right side, and set into the left side are rounded doorways, entrances obscured by thick velvet curtains in an opulent black. Mo stops at the third and holds back the heavy fabric.

When we step through, all I see are thick steel bars across from I swallow down the bile that begins to rise and remind myself that there's only a curtain at my back, not cinder block. The bars are set into the far wall of what appears to be an opera box.

I put on my best rich woman smile- _whatever that means,_ (Give me a break, I'm a little tipsy!) and I take a seat in one of two plump purple theater seats. Our little room is draped in more sable velvet, an antique light fixture casting a soft glow from above. Each chair has its own marble side table, on which sit ornate and impeccably clean silver ashtrays, each displaying a fan of matchbooks with those little purple umbrella logos.

Now that I'm calm enough to look past the bars themselves, I see that we sit on the lower ring of what appears to be some sort of modern colosseum, concentric circles of metal benches making a steep ascent from a central arena. The floor at the bottom is already wet with blood-not a lot, but it's fresh. Hey, at least they wipe the place down after closing, right?

"Mo," Says Ash briskly " Would you be a dear and get me a Tom Collins? And an apple martini for the broad." She winks at him and I laugh as our valet blushes.

"Of course miss Chamberlain. " He does a short bow before exiting the box. Ash turns to me with a scandalized hand over her mouth.

"Can you _believe_ this place?" She stage whispers. "I thought it was just going to be another _stuffy_ private club, but _this_ is interesting."

I absolutely agree, and I'm about to say so when the lights go down. A man in a black suit steps into a lonely spotlight on the center of the arena. His appearance sucks all the white chatter from the room.

"Ladies _and_ Gentlemen, please give a warm welcome to our next contestants-" A rash of applause and whooping breaks out across an otherwise rather dignified looking crowd. _"Frr_ resh out of Blackgate- _again-"_ He pauses for laughter. "and abso _lutely_ _chomping_ at the bit, we have The _Cassowarryyy!"_ He flings out his left arm and the spotlight swivels away to reveal a colossal man wearing mostly ink. Tattoos crawl up his neck and over his jaw, wrapping over his bare head to make a cowl.

The audience roars, and he joins them, taking a few lumbering steps into the ring and brandishing a thick metal bat over his head like it's a toothpick. The guy is a _mountain_ ; his neck alone looks wider than the top of my thigh, and he cant be any less than 6'10''. I could probably fit my entire head inside one of his steel-toes.

"Jesus. I wonder how small _that_ guy's balls are?" Quips Ash. I snicker.

"Seriously though," I whisper, "did we sneak into fight club?"

Ash gives me a look of utter disgust.

"Shh!" She spits, " You _know_ you're not suppose to _say_ it- c'mon Harl, get with the _program!_ "

The crowd hushes again when the spotlight swoops to the other end of the arena.

"This next one's a _special_ guest star on loan from _the league_ ," Booms the announcer. " o lets show him how we do it in _The_ _Aviary_ \- give it up for _The Blllack Kite!_ " That's three bird-type references so far, and now that I think of it The Penguin is known for carrying an umbrella just like the one they've stamped all over this place.

A slender man at least ten inches shorter than his opponent strides gracefully into the spotlight, moving so smoothly he may as well be on tracks. Aside from a curt nod, the Black Kite does not pander to the audience and the applause he gets is meagre in comparison. _Not all that friendly to newcomers, are we?_

The lights come up on the arena, and the Cassowary continues his courtship of the crowd.

" Well he's not so bad on the peepers, is he?" Ash leers at the wiry man quietly commanding stage right. I nod.

He _is_ quite handsome and as he observes his brutish opponent his stillness lends him a predatory air. His dark jeans and black bomber jacket are simple and clean, his hair cropped short. The rounded shape of his face suggests Chinese or Mongolian ancestry; the pallor of his skin speaks of Japanese heritage. But none of that really holds my attention. I can't seem to look away from the twin iron fans that he holds with the casual tenure of a well-acquainted handler. Oh _this_ is gonna be _good._

"As always, a knockout is sufficient for a win and making a big mess is _sort_ _of_ frowned upon- at least it is by the guys who clean it up. Have fun kids!" The announcer steps out of the arena just in time to avoid being mowed down by The Cassowary, who barrels full-tilt at his still unmoving opponent.

At the last second, The Black Kite pivots out of the way and aims a folded fan at Cass's wrist to make him release the bat. The brute manages to yank out of the way, using the momentum to swing back at The Kite who ducks under the bat and lands a solid thwack to the larger man's abdomen. Cass grunts on impact, but seems largely unaffected, as he immediately kicks at Kite. The wiry man easily spins away from the blow, cracking open both fans.

He lands three sharp smacks that send Cass stumbling, but instead of advancing, The Kite steps back several paces into the center of the arena. Then he does something that _could_ be considered a smile if any fraction of it reached his eyes.

Cass whirls on The Kite, spraying pinkish spittle with his heaving breaths. This time when Cass attacks, he's a little more careful, trying to keep his opponent at a safer distance by wielding his bat like a broadsword. The Kite slips under every swing, ducking, pivoting back and behind Cass, but never going on the offensive.

 _He's playing with him._

Ash says something about how I'll ruin the dress if I don't calm down, and Mo might have laughed awkwardly, but I'm not really listening. I'm grinning and gripping my seat, I'm trying to remember every second of this.

Cass has The Kite cornered when the smaller man flashes that dangerous smile again and becomes a whirlwind of metal and black fabric. He uses his fans to twist Cass's bat out of his grip and toss it away, then advances on the disarmed man. Cass grabs for him, but The Kite is too fast, his fans are already snapping down on Cass's wrists. There's a crack and the Blackgate thug roars. One of his hands isn't hanging right anymore. Cass tries to kick, but those fans intercept him and there's another crack.

This one bends his knee backward- I hear a hiss and glance over to see Ash averting her eyes. I look back.

The giant is tumbling from a swift kick to the sternum and he's got a _very_ long way to go. The Kite flips back, and then leaps forward to grab Cass by the face and smash the back of his head into the ground.

For 3 seconds I'm back in that alley standing over a broken man, a trashcan lid gripped tightly in my hand, _and it takes my breath away_.

A wild cry escapes me and suddenly I'm clapping. Ash looks a bit surprised, but she joins me, along with a sparse selection of other audience members. Most people are booing- I'm guessing a fair number of pockets just got _quite_ a bit lighter.

The giant has been put to sleep, and his vanquisher does a small bow- not to the jeering crowd, but to his groaning opponent. Then he turns, straightens his he jacket, and he exits the arena with the composure of a monk.

The announcer steps hastily back into the light, along with two burly men in black, who come to remove the downed Cassowary.

"No bow tonight apparently-" He says, glancing after the Kite. "Lets _uh_ -just get on with it then!" He claps. "Coming up next to fight for your favour is a _sultry siren_ \- but don't let her song send you _overboard_! This _vicious vixen_ 'll take you for all you're worth and leave you with nothing but a _nasty_ nip to remember her by… give it up for _The Magpiiie!_ " The announcer's beam is quite genuine now, and I get the feeling that he's excited to see this next round. Only a quarter of the crowd applauds, but those who do are quite emphatic. I wonder if that's what separates the regulars from the less faithful consumers.

The woman that prowls into view on the left side of the arena has an immediately commanding and disconcertingly familiar presence, although I can't attach a face or name to it. She stares down the audience, and though a black hood obscures most of her face I get the feeling she's looking right at me.

She has a narrow waist and wiry arms under her thin black shirt; her dark jeans are tight across shapely hips and muscular legs. She's got something slung around her neck- I realize it's a whip when she steps into the spotlight.

 _Interesting choice of weaponry Ms. Magpie._

 _"_ Fending off that feisty femme fatale we have …. _The Snowy Oowl!_ -" He pauses for the newly raucous applause, and I'm a little surprised because the next contender is a skinny kid of maybe 18 or 19. "This young gun just got out of a chemistry exam, so I'm sure he'll want to _make like a meltdown_ and let off some _steam!_ " There's some good-natured laughter, but the Snowy Owl steps into the arena with the swagger of an ace shooter. He wears ill-fitting jeans with a Darth Vader T-shirt that says 'who's your daddy?', and in one hand he idly swing a set of Nunchucks. I can see where the owl nickname comes from; his pale blond hair and massive brown eyes certainly give him that look. The kid waves at his unlikely admirers, an easy smile spreading across his face. Then he nods at the Magpie and she wiggles her fingers in return. Its easy to see that they're friend

"Now that we've got the niceties out of the way, let's _PLAY BALL!"_

Both fighters remain still for a moment, watching each other. In the shadow of her hood, the Magpie smirks and begins to circle her opponent, who sticks his tongue out at her and follows suit. When Magpie tenses and her eyes dart over The Owls shoulder, I follow her glance to the wings.

So does he, and that's when she pounces so fast that I miss it entirely. She lands with her boots on his chest but the Owl is quick enough to get his free arm in front of him when he goes down and he uses the leverage to throw her. She takes his retaliation in stride, sweeping her leg out to trip him when he tries to get up. Pulling her whip from her neck and looping the business end loosely around her fist, she smirks and allows him to get to his feet.

 _Real fancy footwork there, Ms. Magpie. Pretty familiar too- I wonder if they know there's a kitty in the birdhouse?_

The owl calmly takes one nunchuck-stick in each hand, and the arena is silent but for for the clink of the chain that links them. Slick leather threads between The Magpie's fingers seconds before her whip slices through the air to crack next to The Owl's ear. He flinches to the left and she meets him with her boot, making his head snap to the right. He stumbles back just in time to avoid the next crack of her whip.

The Owl changes tac and advances full speed, nunchucks spinning in vicious circles around his hands. She fends him off with her whip but she's loosing ground and he attacks so relentlessly that she doesn't have time to get to her feet. She feints a blow, and then catches his next chop on her forearm, using her other hand to flick her whip and lasso his ankle, pulling his feet out from under him. He grunts loudly with the strain and in a wild hail Mary he lashes out, somehow catching her in the stomach with his boot. All the air rushes out of her and she flies back, crashing into the bars of a near-by opera box. Her head snaps back on impact, and her hood slips down as she falls to her knees. When she looks up, I can barely contain my gasp. Her hair is shorter now, less than an inch in the back and above her ears, the length on top swooping diagonally across her forehead. Her cheeks have lost the post adolescent roundness, her features are more defined than they were when I saw her last. Selina's eyes however, are the same liquid gold that I remember.

 _I was college buddies with Catwoman!_ How cool is _that?_

My smile stretches into a massive grin as I watch my old friend heave herself back onto her feet in remarkable time. She snarls, pulling her hood back up and sprinting at her opponent. He rushes to meet her, his weapon all but invisible, leaving only impressionistic blurs. He passes it between his hands bending and twisting with a startlingly natural fluidity.

Selina gets in close and low, blocking or dodging his rapid-fire hits as she pivots around his right side to elbow him square between the shoulder blades. He flinches back and she brings her arm under his chin, one leg braced behind his knees so that he can't step back to catch himself.

The Owl goes for his Nunchucks but Selina's whip darts out to catch his wrist and she jumps, landing with her knees on his shoulders and hooking one arm under his throat with the other behind it. He thrashes and bucks against her, but she must have hit a pressure point because it doesn't take long for his body to go slack.

Selina releases him and gives him a little pat on the fuzzy blond head.

When she turns to the stands her smile is coy and goading, and there seems to be a fire underneath her skin and behind her irises. She looks like power and wrath, the purple flower blossoming across the left side of her face a proud battle scar.

I realize that I want what she has right now- I might even _need_ it. People are just animals right? We all have urges, it's just that we're told to resist them. Don't have too much sex or you're a whore, don't eat too much you'll get fat.  
Avoid violence at all costs. Violence is _bad_.

But we're just animals. Animals _live_ to fuck, fight and feed, so it makes sense that I have this craving, it's not _natural_ to repress it. There's a reason it felt so good to take down that would be rapist (aside from the obvious). And I'm a psychiatrist, I should know what happens when we try to repress things, how they proliferate, spreading under the surface and pushing through the cracks to hijack your controls. If you don't give _just_ a little, they'll take over in the end.  
If anything this place could be a _healthy_ outlet for me.  
Right.

The lights come up and the announcer reappears with his two body-moving companions.

" Lay-dee's and gentleman, we HAVE A WINNER!" His voice is bawdy and triumphant as he marches out to the champion. She allows him to take her arm and raise it as the crowd batters her with boisterous reprimand and praise. She takes it all with the same unwavering poise and grit.

The announcer slips her an envelope and they exchange a few casual words before Selina gives him a nod and slips away to enter the stands as if the audience isn't still roaring.

"I'll be back." I blurt to a rather startled Ashley, and then I bolt out of our box and up the stairs to the stands after Selina. I see her push through the curtains at the top, and I sprint after her.

"SELINA!" I cry when I burst through, but just in time to see her disappear into a gyrating sea of sweaty people. The sudden epileptic lighting and chest-pounding baseline is completely disorienting, but I do my best to follow her path. I'm blinking wildly, batting at wayward arms and side stepping suddenly obstructive feet- I've lost sight of her entirely.

That is I have until she pulls me into the darkness and slams me against a wall.

" _Never_ say that name here, you got it?" she growls.

When I catch my breath I realize she's pulled me into a short hallway off the main room. Also she looks _pissed_. I swallow, but it doesn't do much to wet my throat.

"Scout's honour!" I squeak. She flinches when I go to salute her, almost knocking my hand away before realizing what I'm doing, and releasing me.

" _What_ are you doing here, Harleen?" She asks, begrudgingly helping me to right myself.

"Way to make a girl feel missed! I haven't seen you in _ages, a_ nd now here you are, at an _ightfay ubclay-_ If you _know what I mean._ " By the way her eyebrows have drawn together, I'm guessing she doesn't speak pig Latin. "You were _awesome_ in there! Where did you learn to _fight_ like that?" Apparently plan B is to gush like a fan girl.  
Selina's mouth tightens.

"I picked it up here and there." She shifts her weight like she needs to be somewhere and I'm detaining her. I'm guessing that really, she's just uncomfortable with the topic.

" …Do you think you could teach me maybe?" The question pops out self consciously after a lengthy silence.

"No-abso _lutely_ not." She scoffs.

"Listen, what I saw in there, I need to be a part of it-,"

She laughs incredulously.

"You're drunk Harleen, _go_ _home_." She pats me on the shoulder.

"No! _I'm_ _not_ \- not anymore" I allow, shaking my head. "Listen, _please_ , I just need an outlet. I uh-I got a stressful job, and you _know_ I'm a good gymnast! I can box too, so those are good building blocks right? I feel like it wouldn't even be _that_ much work to-"

"Why should I help you?" She snaps.

"I dunno," I shrug, looking down. "I kind of thought we were friends and you might do me a favour."

"Yeah? Well I don't work like that. See you later _Harls._ And by the way, you couldn't _cut_ _it_ in there, sweetie." Selina gives crude smile and then she turns to walk away.  
My blood boils.

"You know, there's not a lot of people who use _whips_ like that." Selina has gone entirely immobile. "Even fewer women, with your body type, use whips like that. It occurs to me that I recently saw another woman-a pretty _infamous_ one I might add- with _your_ body type, using a whip, _and_ pulling a lot of the same _fancy_ _foot_ _work_ you just did-" Ok, so 'fancy foot work' sounded more menacing in my head. "Now _what_ am I to-"

" _Are you threatening me?"_ Selina turns slowly and I swear I can see her hackles coming up.

"Of _course_ not!" I throw my hands up."I'm doing _you_ a favour because I wont tell anyone what I may or may no _t_ know. I'm just trying to be a good friend and clue _you_ in that _I'm_ clued in! You feel me?"

"Yeah. _I feel you_." She grumbles.

"So," I smile nice and wide "you want to help me _now?_ "

She glowers at me, taking a deep breath and rolling her eyes up to the ceiling as if she's trying to convince herself not to end me. I gambled right though, because when she looks back at me, I do see just a hint of apprehension.  
 _Well at least she's taking me seriously._

"Since I'm doing you a _favour_ , we need to get a few things straight: first, I'm not responsible for you getting your ass kicked in there and when you do, I don't want to hear you whine about it. Second, we work on _my_ schedule, you can't make it, you show up late- _too bad._ "

"That's all?" I'm pretty much bouncing at this point.

Selina grumbles something rather sarcastic about 'friends', but I've already got her arms around her neck.

"Thank you, thank you! Really, I owe you one, Sel- _uh_ …Sensei!" I giggle, bowing like it will cover my slip-up. "Should I call you that? Ooh or what about sergeant!" I ramble emphatically. "Master-Chief?"

"Your friend is looking for you." Her expression is still set in aggravation, but the sideways tilt of her head says she's at least mildly entertained.

"How do you know-"

"Harleyyy!" At Ash's drunken cry I turn to see her waltzing past the entry of our little side-hall, Mo in reluctant pursuit and trying ardently not to spill her drink.

"You better go wrangle that." Quips Selina, arching an impeccably shaped eyebrow and turning again to leave again.

"Wait! How do I get in touch with you?"

She keeps walking but she does hold her phone out to me. I scramble to catch up and take it, typing my number in and adding a little heart next to my name. She rolls her eyes when I pass it back.

"Thank you-seriously, I'm really grateful." I gush

"Yeah?" Selina cracks a devious little smile. " You might not be so thankful Sunday morning."

"Tomorrow? Really?" I can't keep the protest from my voice.

She claps a hand over her mouth with phony astonishment.

"Is _that_ what tomorrow is? Oh well! See you then _sweetie_." She wiggles her fingers at me. She's going to make me regret every drop of alcohol I touched tonight.

It takes me a solid thirty minutes to find Ash and our now horrified Valet. My dear friend has apparently given up on her search, having settled for amusement in a group of very intoxicated young men.

I catch her in the middle of an impassioned and absolutely _bogus_ soliloquy about the merits of CBT-and I _don't_ meant cognitive behavioural therapy. Her victims appear to be taking these threats very seriously, some of them even going so far as to cup themselves protectively under the table.

As much as I enjoy watching Ashley torture men, I need to get to sleep _now_ if I'm going to train in the morning.

But I may as well make it a good exit, right?

"Daarling!" I cry, striding up behind my friend and wrapping my arms around her waist.

"Honeybee." She says affectionately, stroking my face in a parody of an old movie star.

"Hans is waiting at home…" I say.

She lifts her eyebrows.

"And Katya?" She demands.

"Of course, baby! She's on her way, and Jensen's plane from the Maldives' _just_ landed. It's _all_ taken care of."

She scrutinizes me for a moment.

"Ok." She shrugs, and licks my nose. I giggle, releasing her waist and offering my arm like a gent.

"Shall we?" I query in a horrible British accent. She takes my arm.

"We _shall_ -" Ash turns to her victim. " _Well_. It's been lovely talking to you boys, but I need to go pick out a strap-on. Toodle-oo!" She chirps, and we scamper away, barely containing fits of childish laughter.

Ash gives Mo a ridiculous tip and the stunned valet is embarrassingly polite as we leave.

I get my endearingly intoxicated friend tucked in with a glass of water and a bucket just in case, and then I rush home to my own bed, frantic at the thought of tomorrow's ambiguously early rise. I put a loud ringer on my texts so I'll wake up when she contacts me, but I also set an alarm for 7:30 just in case. Of course with all the excitement it's nearly impossible to fall asleep and I lie awake for at least an hour replaying Selina's fight in my mind.

I wake in a panic when my alarm goes off, and I throw myself into the shower like I'm already late. I inhale my toast with such vigour that I can feel each individual lump of food as it struggles through the length of my oesophagus. By 8 o'clock I'm all suited up and ready, my backpack by the door, my water bottle full and my hair secured in a tight braid. I check my phone-again.  
Nothing.

I pace. I play a round of nyan cat and it's remarkably unsuccessful because I can't focus. Still, the tiny pop-tart kitty _does_ make me smile. Then I worry that I gave Selina the wrong number, and I check my messages.  
Nothing.

I step up onto the arm of my couch and walk across the back, then I jump down, turn around, and repeat. I don't know how long I do this, but it ends when I get lazy and one of my feet slides out of place, and I'm on the floor before I notice I'm falling, groaning and clutching my hip where I glanced it off the top of the couch. Then I check my phone.  
Nothing.

 _She's not going to text me._ I curl into a ball on the floor.

She's probably in some fabulous penthouse on the other side of Gotham, laughing at _stupid_ little Harley. I flush with embarrassment and cover my face even though there's no one here to see me. My mood spirals rapidly downward, and I know I need to distract myself before it gets out of control but I can't think of a single thing that might help. And then, when I can feel myself slipping over the brink I see my laptop- more _accurately_ I see the case files on top of it.

I crawl over and reach up for the files, and then I roll back into my ball to read about the most distracting person I know.

The file contains his psychiatric test results. The first time batman brought him in, he presented as someone in the deep throws of a psychotic episode, screaming and thrashing at invisible attackers, violently ranting absolute nonsense.

He had all the right symptoms. Erratic behaviour, hyper-vigilance, obviously flashbacks, and once they got him into therapy, pathological avoidance. But eventually, he said he thought his name might have been Jack- he didn't know his last name. He said that he used to be an engineer. He wasn't rich but he had a beautiful wife, and they had a little angel on the way, and that was _all_ that mattered. He said he lost paradise in a single night, when a man in a _horrifying_ black suit broke into his home.

He said the man tied him up, that he murdered his wife and cut out his baby to slit its undeveloped throat in front of him. The man shrugged, looming over him with horns like a demon, his black cape sucking all the light from the room, and he said one thing:

"Every great Hero needs a Villain, right?"

And then the man cut into his face.

I've seen the tapes, his performance is flawless, I couldn't tell and I _knew_ he was lying.

They recorded him with an IQ of 121. Above average, certainly nothing to sniff at- but nothing remarkable. He demonstrated aptitudes and deficits in all the right areas. The diagnosis seemed _obvious._ Post Traumatic Stress Disorder with Psychotic features. When he started to 'recover'? _Well_ , he was Arkham's crowning glory.

The man they called Jack became increasingly genial. He was described as a good natured and intelligent man, charming even, and when the time came to consider his chances for release, he was assessed as low risk with a PCLR score of 5, which is well within the average for your typical citizen. No psychopathy detected. Of course they didn't really have any history on him back then, only what he had told them.  
It was an _extraordinary_ con.

They released him to a community home with a heartfelt goodbye, he said he would come visit them all _really_ soon. Obviously, he slaughtered everyone in the home the moment the Arkham bus rounded the corner, and then he was gone. There were a few months of madness before he was brought back in.

Any vestige of "Jack" had been shed. The man in the interview room now refused to respond to any name but Joker. He was diagnosed with schizotypal disorder and OCD with a violent fixation on the batman. His IQ was recorded as 182- well above genius level. His PCLR score was a 27-not a psychopath, but certainly a violent, irrational person. They didn't release him that time. He let himself out. He killed 4 guards and 2 nurses, so suffice it to say he wasn't _quite_ as well liked as before.

And so began the procession of wildly fluctuating affects and scores, each time he came in he put on a new face, got a brand new diagnosis, and took more lives. Thanks to the scars he never really stopped smiling.

His ability to hijack thoroughly validated psychological measures and fool a series of increasingly vetted psychiatrists is unparalleled, as are his medical results- his wickedly high pain threshold and his tolerance to most drugs make him nearly impossible to control.

Sometimes I forget that he's _supposed_ to be human.

BWAAAAAAA

I jump at the foghorn, smacking my head under the table and scattering my files before recognizing the ringer I set to my texts the night before.

 _Something came up. Can't meet today._

 _-S_

So vague, so noncommittal. I slouch back into the floor, thoroughly disappointed but equally relieved that she's not giving me the cold shoulder.

 _No worries!_ I type a little too quickly-I mean, I would like to retain _some_ dignity.

 _Any idea when you'll have time?_

Resigned not to spend another (I check the time and sigh) 3 hours waiting for a response from the world's most elusive woman, I pull myself up into a chair and open my laptop to my email.

I've got one from Rebecca explaining that the Warden had gotten in touch with an old friend at Crown publishing, and that they expressed significant interest in my prospective work after what I'm sure was a ridiculous promotion by Finch. Either way, Crown wants to set up a meeting to discuss my "direction"- which is a laughable term for what I have. I know that the only reason they're _really_ considering it is because the commendation came from Finch, but a tentative pride still warms my chest. I shoot an email to my new contact, agonizing over the precise wording of the message and changing it at least 6 times before actually sending the damn thing.

I spend the rest of the day doing martial arts tutorial videos on YouTube and for dinner I eat the dino-shaped chicken nuggets that I hide in the back of the fridge for rainy days. You _should_ eat them head-first so they don't suffer, but sometimes I like to start with the tail, smothering the bitten end in ketchup and making little dino screams as I chew them up.

I spend a bit of time reviewing my notes for this week's roster of interviews and then flip on the news for little distraction before bed. Apparently some meta-hippie is putting on a real-life production of little shop of horrors in Robinson Park, which is mildly interesting- but not really _news_ for Gotham.

When the words BACK ALLEY BRUTE scrolls across the screen I fumble for the remote, rushing to turn up the volume. The footage cuts to _Tabitha May, with the nine o'clock news._

"45 year old Gary Larson is in intensive care after having been attacked last Thursday evening outside of his favourite pub." A bad I.D photo appears in the corner of the screen, and despite the low resolution and the over-powering flash I recognize the man in a matter of seconds. I sit up a little straighter.

The screen switches to two gruffly anxious men. Both are in their late forties, and looking quite worse for wear.

"Gary went out fer a smoke break, n' when he didn't come back me n' Murph" He jabs his thumb at the thickly bearded man next to him. "went out to check on em' and when we find em-" His voice crack, and his sniffs. I realize that the sides of my mouth are trying to tug themselves up so I use my fingers to pull them back down. "when we find em', he's just lyin there." The feed switches back to Tabitha May _._ She turns to the camera, a copyrighted expression of sympathy painted on.

"Police are saying that Larson was struck in the back of the head with a blunt instrument," The corners of my mouth pop out from my fingers, pushing up to turn into a full on grin. "and likely lost consciousness when he feel, striking his head again. Larson since been hospitalized, but is fully conscious at this point. Doctors say he has a very good chance for recovery. "

My finger jams down on the power button and the screen goes black. My apartment seems so silent that the buzz of the fridge itches in my ears. I slump back against the headboard and yank my blankets up to my chin, suddenly ice cold.

This is so fucked up.

I'm _disappointed_ that he isn't dead. That all he gets for _terrorizing_ a young girl will be a bunch of cards and grocery store bouquets from idle Gotham-ites who saw the news story. It's disgusting. And what would The _Batman_ do? Nothing. He's too busy dealing with _the big bads,_ most of whom are entirely fixated on him anyways. Maybe _Gary_ would spend a night in GCPD lock-up, but without charges to press he would be out the next morning.

More than that, more than all the injustice and hypocrisy, I feel the oppressive weight of my failure. I could have _ended_ him. I had the I don't do that; I'm not like that. I don't want to kill anyone- I just have some aggression to work through. Which I'm going to be doing. With Selina.

I don't want to _kill_ anyone-that would be crazy.

I'm not crazy- seriously.

 _I'm watching smiling faces- thousands blurring together as I slide past on my sleigh. The world is a pallet of garish, glittering red, green and white. Each lungful of air I take is fresh and cold, priming every nerve. I am livewire next to a steadily spreading pool of water, just waiting to go systemic, knowing that I'm about to I'm about to erupt._

 _I look down and find my hands gloved in white leather, unfamiliar long fingers dancing unpretentiously with the serrated blade that hides between my palms._

 _Then there is stubbled pink skin under that blade, reddening with the friction. I press down just a little, because I like the way the flesh jumps in response, and the Mayor starts to cry. Not childish bawling, but the silent shameful tears of a grown man showing the whole world exactly who he is behind the cameras._

 _I'm laughing, laughing so hard and it's not my laugh, it is full, and colourful, and free._

 _Then I'm pushing through skin, sawing back and forth into unyielding cartilage, but I preserver, and then I've got an ear in my hand. I balance it on a plump pine bow, and think Well that looks rather dashing. I swear to god I can taste the salt and the corticotropin, I can smell fear like quinine and sour milk, and all those smiling faces? Well, they aren't smiling any more._

 _But I am._

 _And when the fire consumes them I'm laughing, screaming, swinging wildly on a rope ladder a thousand feet above the melting bodies, and my mind is absolutely, blissfully empty, and I am free._

It takes me a few minutes to actually wake up when my alarm goes off, and though I don't remember my dream I feel warm, fuzzy, and utterly at peace.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes:** Hiya kids!

If you've been missing our Mr J, you're not alone- but never fear! This week, our prodigal clown returns and has a bit of fun with his Harley girl. I decided to explore a bit more of her history as well, and Selina makes another appearance, so I hope you guys enjoy it!

Thanks again to everyone who reviews- you've all been so incredibly supportive and I really appreciate it!

Much love to you all,

xoxo SewerAngel

 **CHAPTER 7** : Daddy Issues

On Monday, Arkham is absolute chaos. I would think there had been another breakout if I didn't see the army of construction workers filtering into the lower levels. Looks like we have fresh meat.

Not that it's a surprise- we get new patients everyday, we just don't usually have to build brand-new holding facilities for them. I haven't seen this much bustle since the last time we had to lock up Croc. The curiosity has me hanging around the entry for longer than strictly necessary, straining my neck to catch a clue about the identity of this new and clearly dangerous charge. A gentle swat to the arm from Leland snaps me out of it.

"Don't you have _something_ to do?" She rebukes light heartedly.

"Do we have another meta?" I tip my head at the gaggle of men lugging in tools and supplies.

"Indeed." Leland blows the steam from her coffee, fogging her glasses. She sighs and takes them off, waving them around to clear the lenses.

"Have I heard of them?" I inquire casually, trying not to betray my excitement. I end up picking at the handle of my briefcase like I'm looking for lice. Leland rubs her forehead and tries to shoot me a look of admonishment. She obviously sees through me, but her glare melts into knowing indulgence.

"Did you hear about the plant woman?" _The super-hippie from the news!_ "The one who took over Robinson park- she's calling herself ' _Poison_ _Ivy'_ , civ name _Pamela Isley_."

"I didn't see the footage- did she actually _eat_ anybody? Like with her plants, I mean- like little shop of horrors!"

Leland's eyes narrow playfully at me over her coffee cup, giving me a glimpse of how she might interact with her children. This is one of the few perks of being a small adult.

"Her plants ate _11_ people." She whispers behind her hand. I grin. You have to be just a _little_ different to work at Arkham. "But she also had half the GCPD under some kind of hypnosis- She even had _Batman_ following orders for a while." She relays incredulously

" _No!_ " I'm honestly shocked. Batman doesn't even _really_ react that much to Crane's fear toxin, but Holly _-_ hippy has him walking into her the Venus bat-trap?

"I know!" Exclaims Leland, apparently just as baffled as I am.

"Do we know how it works?"

She shakes her head and her shoulders slump as she eyes the procession.

"Do we ever? We know she can't be allowed to come into contact with any living plant matter _whatsoever_ \- not even dehydrated samples. That's mostly why we're building a containment chamber… " Her mouth tightens. "Sometimes I feel like this place is just a resort for them or something, like we can't help and they know it."

I almost laugh- I know a guy who would agree with her, but Leland just looks so horribly defeated that I hold back and pat her on the shoulder.

"Is she assigned to anyone yet?" I ask offhand.

"Your caseload is already over-full, Harleen!" She snaps.

"Sheesh," I raise my hands in appeasement, "I was just curious!"

"I'm taking her on- for _now_." Admits the older woman. "Although I don't know when or how I'll be able to meet with her, given her abilities. "

I'm relieved that the lecherous Finch didn't snap up our new specimen. I can't see that being a good match.

"You'll do a great job when you do Joan. Really, she couldn't be in better hands." I offer with what I hope is a comforting smile. Leland's expression warms and she takes a long sip from her mug.

" Thanks Harleen. Now one more time, don't you have something to do- _why_ am I paying you?"

I'm already bounding off, throwing a chipper adieu over my shoulder before she can consider actually getting annoyed with me.

My day is a whirlwind of sessions and the paperwork that I neglected on the weekend, so I don't have a lot of down time to ponder our new resident, but I do spend my lunch break looking into a Ms. Pamela Isley while chowing down on microwave noodles.

All the footage I find from Robinson Park is taken from a healthy distance, and the air is clogged with a thick green haze that serves to further reduce the acuity. But there, at the center of the fog, the gunfire and what appears to be several thrashing green snakes, is a tiny naked woman with hair like a blaze of fire.  
 _Poison Ivy._

The only photo I can find of her before her recent debut is a tiny university staff photo on a memo about some of her research. The woman in the miniature is absolutely stunning-like _unfair_ stunning. Like you kind of want to kill her, but you also want to _be_ her, and _maybe do some other stuff,_ but its all very confusing because that's just how stunning she is. She's got an Irish complexion: fair skin and petal pink cheeks with a smattering of light freckles. Her naturally ringleted red hair is in a thick bun sitting on top of her head, fighting her green scrunchy to the death. Tiny, wire-rimmed glasses perch low on her up-turned nose, and her eyes flash a brilliant green over the top. Her smile is crooked and oddly genuine for a staff photo, her eyes glassy. I realize there's something very familiar about the expression, but I brush it off. She must have known the photographer or something.

It turns out she has a fair number of publications to her name- all advanced biochemistry stuff that I can't understand for the life of me. _Smart cookie._ Then things get a little more dramatic. Apparently Isley was writing her thesis under Dr. Jason Woodrue, a highly lauded botanist-who is _not too bad_ on the eyes either. Turns out there was an ambiguous, but catastrophic accident in the lab about six months ago, resulting in the disappearance of Dr. Woodrue and landing Ms. Isley in the hospital.

Apparently she checked herself out of Gotham general a week ago and moved right into the park.

I end up trying to get through one of her papers, but I give up when I realize I'm spending more time thinking about steamy botanical student-teacher encounters so I give up and get back to work.

I've just gotten out of my last session of the day when my phone rings.

"Hello?" The exhaustion is palpable in my lack of prosody.

"Hi there, is this Dr. Quinzel? My name is Simon Baker, I'm with Crowne Publishing." The man on the other end has the slightly gravelled voice of an older man, but there is authentically personable warmth to it, and I feel marginally less annoyed.

"Hi! Yes, This is me-" I wince. "Um-Dr. Quinzel. Please, call me Harleen."

Simon laughs.

"It's nice to finally speak to you Harleen, I've heard good things. I got your email, but I usually prefer to handle things over the phone. I'd like to set up a meeting to talk about your direction, is there a time that works best for you?"

My _direction?_ I swallow.

"Um yes, uh-maybe Wednesday or Thursday after 6?"

"How about we have diner on Thursday, where would you like to eat- _it's on the company card!_ " He says conspiratorially.

I _could_ pick a fancy place, but I don't want to and I get the feeling he'll be ok with it.

"…Can we go to Caplansky's? On Howe, -"

"Just south of Cambey, I know the place! Best Reuben in town. So I'll see you there at 7 on Thursday?"

"Yes, Mr. Baker I look forward to it."

"I'm too old to be Mr. Baker, that time has come and gone " He chuckles, "I go by Simon now."

"Alright, Simon." My smile is audible.

"Take care now, Harleen."

"You too!" I end the call looking forward to our meeting despite the fact that I really don't have much to bring to the table at this point.

I stuff my phone back into my bag and resolve to finish transcribing Friday's session when I get home. I know I _could_ have my computer do the heavy work, but going through the video at that pace helps me make better notes- _He_ was right. It's better to listen first and write later. I get so caught up in recording everything that I don't notice the little things. When I get home, I slug through my self-imposed homework and end up dining on a bag of gummy worms while watching the Jack tapes.

The man in the grainy footage is nothing like the one that I work with. His copper hair is short, his eyes sunken and haunted. He hunches in his chair, tensed but in a nervous way, reactive rather than instrumental. He picks at his hands, which are covered in scabs, and his doctor points it out. He flinches and tucks them under his legs like he's embarrassed.

Eventually, after significant talking around, he admits that he had a flashback. He says he he thinks he might have been an engineer, and amongst the myriad of nervous ticks he is displaying, I see something I recognize.

It's that little twitch at the corner of his mouth. I start to wonder if maybe there was a grain of truth in that story, maybe he really was an engineer-or at least something related, maybe something in chemistry. He builds bombs, animatronics, develops complex neurotoxins- it would make sense for him to have a background that would have at least given him the basics.

Even if he actually doesn't remember it- the tick could be an expression of cognitive dissonance in general, and not specified to things like the Doe moniker that he would be consciously aware of.

Or maybe it just means he's annoyed.

I force myself to shut my laptop and head to bed, but then I stop outside my closet, wondering if I accidentally set a precedent with the dress last week. I begin to peruse the Ashley section, thinking that it doesn't matter because it felt good to dress up- and why shouldn't I? I already have the job.

Perhaps because I've got Ivy on my mind, I pick out a deep green pencil skirt and a black blazer. I feel like a TV lawyer when I try it one-but in a good way, like I'm ready to win an argument, and who knows? Maybe this week I am.

I check my phone before plugging it in to charge, but there's still no response from Selina. Climbing into bed I give a little moan of despair and hug my pillow. I know its only been one day, and I've been trying not to think about it but the suspense is _killing_ me. I keep trying to imagine what it will be like and end up coming up with these phoney training montages stolen from Rocky or Karate Kid-which usually results in me leaping around my kitchen doing wild kicks and punches. So far I've broken one vase and one mug and I feel like it's going to start getting expensive if she doesn't pull through soon.

I roll around obnoxiously for what feels like a few years before realizing I should probably distract myself. The first thing that pops into my head is a pair of long hand in white gloves, cradling a blade. I know whose they are. I scrunch my face and think about kittens, and then puppies, then those tiny French sandwich-pastry thingies with the raspberry goo in the middle. Then I think of white skin flecked with liquid red, and _gleaming_ purple brogues on crisp snow…I fall asleep without noticing, and wake up before my alarm feeling rather chipper.

I put on my lawyer lady outfit and end up wasting time performing lines from legally blonde in the mirror, so my breakfast is a banana and a mars bar from the vending machine in the staff room. I'm running on something else today though, and it's hard to think of anything other than 1:30pm, when I get to see _him_. My mind begins to buzz at the thought, rehearsing my line of questioning fervently. It becomes a background mantra throughout my morning, and persists into the therapy room where I wait for his arrival.

I'm sitting with my hands tucked under my legs, knees bouncing, _listening_ for him, but I adjust myself into an adult-like position when I hear the muffled notes of his histrionic voice eking up through the elevator shaft. He's singing, I catch the tune before I can divine the words- something reprobate and bluesy. I try to piece it together through the snippets that make it to my little room…something about a woman and a snake? I don't catch much more because I have to focus harder and harder to keep my feet from their anxious tapping, and the diversion makes further deduction impossible.

 _What_ is _with_ me today?

He finishes his song just outside the door, and the last line is so clear that even my jittery nerves can't drown it out.

" Take me in, oh ten- _der_ wo- _man_ , _siiighed the sssnake!_ " He crumbles into that mercurial laughter and I see the shadow of Bradley's hand pressed against the fogged glass window set into the door.

I shiver without really knowing why, and then I stand for his entrance. The door swings open and the jester appears, doing a jaunty little grapevine into the room with a frolicsome:

"Quinzel!"

He sports a knavish grin to match, and then he sets into some rather violent and uncomfortable thrashing, forcing his elbows up over his head and then snatching the strap of his sleeve between his teeth to undo the buckle. He's got his straightjacket off in maybe 5 seconds and he's tossed it back to blind Bradley with the heavy canvas. The guard doesn't do anything more useful than squawk and flail under his opaque veil. The Joker brushes off his jump suit and takes a seat, primly folding his hands on his lap.

I stare at him with my mandible hanging loose.

"I prefer you in red." He says, his eyes tracing up from my ankles to my verdant skirt before connecting with mine. I hasten to hide my skirt behind the desk as I sit down.

Bradley finally bursts free, gelatinous face blanched with the obvious expectation that he's about to find my corpse. He slouches into relief and shock when he finds me continuing to breathe, but his hands still shake with the residual panic. I allow a beat of silence, still trying to match my patient's stare before I direct Bradley to hook his ankle restraints to the wall. Bradley lifts his eyebrows, apparently questioning the use of any sort of restraint at this point. He's not alone and the thought stills my fidgeting, but I need to hold on to the illusion of control-if only to bolster the morsel of jurisdiction (I hope) I've managed to retain over these past weeks.

J's grin hasn't wavered a millimeter, he hasn't moved an inch. He just sits there with his teeth bared, waiting for me to say something.

"You, um, you seem energetic today." _Good job Harleen, real strong start._

"Spring is in the air Doc, I can _feel_ it." He emphasizes the T at the end of the sentence, making little starbursts with his hands in the air.

"It's January." I respond reflexively with legitimate confusion.

"Is it _really?"_ He strokes his chin as if seriously reconsidering his statement. "And here I was thinking it was high time to be _sprung_." He sighs and throws up his hands in defeat. "I used to have an above ground cell, you know." He blew the wall out of said cell if memory serves me correctly. "In the warmer months it was rather comforting to look out the window and see something _green_ \- I had a particular fondness for the _hedera_ family."

Commonly known as ivy. My gut clenches, and I look down at it in question.

"Is she as beautiful as they say?" The question throws me, though he asks it innocently enough. My mouth twitches but I keep it from turning down. He's grinning at me crookedly, brows arched- why is he making _that_ face?  
Oh.  
He thinks I'm _jealous_.  
 _Well I'm obviously not._

" _Yeah_. She's got _killer_ looks." okay so I might just be a little annoyed. I'm definitely not jealous. "And how do you know about her? You don't have media privileges- you're not even allowed to interact with other inmates anymore."

My patient chuckles, then puts on an earnest expression and runs a hand through his hair as if settling in for a lengthy explanation.

"People aren't the _only_ way of getting information you know. It might have been six years ago- or- well I'm not good with dates. Either way there were horrible fruit flies that summer- _everywhere_ , swimming in your lemonade and flying up your nose. It was _awful-_ truly; I thought a plague had come upon Gotham, surely pestilence would come next. Which was _terribly_ exciting of course, but the fruit flies were a real problem."

"I was laying low at the time- I needed to wait for a few things to come to fruition before starting the _game_ \- but I was _stuck_ hiding inside with the little bastards until then..." His face contorts in disgust. "Naturally I devised and built a myriad of rather entertaining death traps." He sighs and looks fondly into the 'distance'. "For a while it was like my own _private genocide_ -I dissolved them in sweet smelling acid, I mounted a laser sentry by the fruit bowl and fried them alive!" His head shakes with the excitement.

" _Finally_ after 6 days of slaughter, I thought I had killed them all." His eyes darken as his brows draw down. "but then they started to come back, _In droves_ , and this time they were _evading_ my traps- I had unknowingly been breeding a race of super-intelligent flies! " His mouth curves down in haughty disgust and he crosses his arms. "Which was absolutely unacceptable of course, and it was clear to me that there was only one recourse-" He drives his index finger into the air with a sudden vigour. " _I had to make them my slaves."_ He composes himself. "So I developed a complex pheromonal signalling system-which at first was really only good for swarming unsuspecting shmucks. But _then_ , I got my sticky fingers on some very promising surveillance prototypes from Wayne tech. Of course they needed some work- they hadn't designed the cameras to be worn by slaveflies, but it didn't take long for me to work out the kinks…" He examines his nails- _no big deal._ "And that, my dear is the story of how I became the Fly Master of Gotham, Don _Drosophilia_ , Clown Prince of _Pests_ \- I've got eyes, ears, and proboscis everywhere!"

I crack a smile.

"Were you making that up as you went along or did you have it prepared?"

He smirks back.

"Does she have a nice ass?" His retort is painfully casual. I sneer- it's automatic, and I force it under but he's already seen it. His smile spreads and he does a leisurely little stretch.

 _Get your shit together Harleen._ I take a little breath-one I hope he doesn't know is deliberate, and put on my therapist face.

"I'd like to talk about _Jack_." I state, folding my hands delicately on the table in front of me.

There's my twitch.

"I heard he fell down a hill- broke his crown, didn't he? Please, _send my condolences_."

"You said you used to be an engineer."

There's that twitch again. He tilts his head, one brow raised. _Oh he doesn't like this._

"Are you familiar with the concept of micro-expressions, Doc?"

"Yes- shocking as it may be, I have a _passable_ grasp of basic social psychology." My expression is composed and civil, but my stomach roils with acid. When he chuckles, I sincerely want to shove my fist down his throat.

"It's beautiful, isn't it? No matter how good your mouth is at lying, your face _still_ tells the truth- within a fraction of a second _none the less!_ Now, what baffles me is that you _continue_ to try and hide those little pouts and grimaces-" He waves his hands in lazy circles to gesture at my face. "It's all very _cute_ of course, but _good grief_ Quinzel! You're an intelligent woman; you must know that you're a _terrible_ liar." He responds to my stifled huff with his own contrived moue. "Its not your fault cupcake, _its human nature!_ Ninety percent of communication is non-verbal; you know that- it must be _exhausting_ trying to cover it all up. "

" Well I'm sure you would know, you take on a new disorder every time you come in."

" That's just it! I _know_ that I'm playing- you seem to think this little _persona_ you've put on is _real_. Why do you _do_ that doc, why do you keep trying?"

"I'm not _trying_ to do anything."

"Must make it hard to _connect_ with people if they don't even know who you _are_."

"Does projecting your antisocial tendencies onto me help you to maintain a positive self-concept?"

" I get it Doc. They don't look past your skin… It must be _terribly_ lonely out there."

I really don't know how to react, and my riposte remains lodged in my throat because his tone isn't jeering, his expression is not glib. Instead he looks at me with something horribly close to sympathy. It must be lonely _out there_. Like he's better off in this cage. Like he feels bad for _me_.

"I have a perfectly satisfactory social life."

His forehead puckers.

"The bullying must have been _atrocious_ \- not exactly surprising though, we persecute what we don't understand- and we both know those _cretins_ never had a hope in hell. _Did you ever retaliate?"_ His eyes flash. "Physically I mean."

"It's nearly impossible to reach adulthood without experiencing some form of bullying, I'm not an outlier."

"Daddy told you to suck it up when you cried, _didn't he?_ That's just not fair, leaving _little Harley_ to face this world on her own!"

"Adversity is an opportunity for growth and development of coping mechanisms."

"I'd like to hang him by his intestines."

"I- _What?_ "

"Your father- I'd like to make a small incision in his lower abdomen and pull out his intestines. Slowly of course, wouldn't want him to _die_ before I managed to tie his _noose_."

I want to laugh, and cry, and hug him, and run away.

"My father is dead." _To me_.

I've said it so many times I don't even feel the shame that started the lie.

" _Really?_ That's not what _I_ heard- what is it this time, 5 years?" My skin flashes hot and then prickles with cold. I shouldn't be surprised he knows.

"He finds you every time he gets out, he comes looking for money and sympathy." His mouth twists into a snarl when he says it, but he's not looking at me. "I'm sure he's _quite_ good- lots of _practice_ with the insurance companies. He's always _so_ _sorry_ , and he loves you _very_ much. Je just needs a _little_ _help_ getting back on his feet- _right?"_ His gaze is on me again.

His mouth still curved in disgust, but his eyes are oddly soft and I find that I can't look at them directly. The expression is too foreign, and this conversation has gotten _way_ too close to me. "Does he still try to pull you into his schemes like he did when you were a child?" It's a gentle question, edged with reprehension.

"This is inappropriate." I bark. So much for concealing my emotions- although lets face it, he has a talent for drawing them out.

"So lets see, you're an emotionally insincere workaholic with trust issues- I can't imagine _that's_ been great for your love life- and by the way, you'll give yourself nerve damage if you keep wringing your hands like that, Cupcake." I've been so busy glaring at him that I don't notice him reaching across the table until his hands are on mine. I jump, but it takes me a second too long to pull away because they are _very_ large and warm, and the weight of them is quite pleasant- _and none of those things are ok._

He giggles fondly at my rejection, dimples proudly on display, and then he _actually_ sighs. He doesn't lean back at all, simply tucking his hands under his chin.

God _damnit_.

"I _know_ what you're doing." I assure him, crossing my arms to hide my hands.

"Expressing empathy?" He presses his hands to his chest with feigned innocence. "I thought that was one of the things we were supposed to be working on- _shouldn't I get a sticker for this or_ _something?"_

"You aren't expressing _empathy_ , you're playing on what you _perceive_ to be my emotional vulnerabilities in an _attempt_ to create a false sense of trust and camaraderie." I've got my mask back in place now, and I feel a little better letting the anger take over. The Joker raises his eyebrows as one might to a child vehemently insisting on going barefoot into a snowstorm. I glare at him.

"Its ok, little harlequin. You don't have to be alone anymore." My tongue is frozen, my vision paring down because he speaks these words like a vow. His smile is stripped of candy-paint, his tone gentle but absolute and unwavering, and it hits me all at once. Prickling anger like a scaly rash, hot and inescapable, great gouging swipes of shame and hurt to leave me gutted and open to infection.

And something new- not medicine to take it away or a knife to end the suffering but a rope to hold on to in the darkness, and that's all.

I want to vomit.

I don't like this new smile of his. I want him to laugh and finish the joke now, I'm desperate for the punchline, but he just sits there staring at me.

"I heard the carpet matches the drapes- Ivy's I mean- she wont put any clothes on." I blurt.

"Are you _that_ eager to change the topic?" He tilts his head.

I grimace.

"I don't know what you're talking about- _I'm_ the psychiatrist here, can we _please_ talk about you?"

"If you want to join me in my cell, I'd be happy to regale you." His face is still perfectly innocent but he purrs the invitation in such a way that my brows attempt to escape my face. He gives up his unimpeachable façade, chuckling at my wordlessly opened mouth, and then inclines his head toward the clock on the wall. "I last longer than 60 seconds, cupcake."

 _What?!_ Oh. He means the session is over.

 _Jesus Christ._

"That's ina-"

"Inappropriate!" He squeals, clapping boyishly. "Isn't it delightful?"

I narrow my eyes to try and counteract the way my face is catching fire.

" _I'll see you next week_." Despite my best efforts to the contrary, it comes out like it's supposed to be an insult.

He giggles as I stand, and I give him a curt nod with a less-than-professional-glare as I head for the door.

"I'll see you in your dreams, doc!" He calls after me, and I almost come full stop because suddenly I'm _worried_ he knows about my _dreams_ , and then I'm marching so fast I may as well be jogging.

I can't let myself think right now, because my mind its spinning so fast I'm afraid it might fall out, because there are a million things darting in and out and I can't catch hold of any of them. If I stop for one second to think about _any_ of what just happened I'm afraid I might have a full-on breakdown. Not a cute little stress-ball tantrum. A giant, destructive, tears and snot bubbles explosion.

I head for the stairwell, not daring to stop as I race up to the classrooms on the fifth floor. I don't spend much time on 5th, so I rather frantically consult an orderly to find the computer labs, but with direction I locate them easily.

Not wanting Ed to think I didn't have faith, I stay outside, settling for a peek through the window. I see Ed gesturing wildly at his (admittedly confused looking) pupils.

Good! He's enthusiastic- this is _good_. I did something _good_.

 _Focus on that,_ _focus on what you're going to ask Ed tomorrow, ignore the horrible foreboding prickles assaulting your nerves._ A horrible, garbled scream yanks me back into the present and my eyes snap back up to the window. I see Ed with his fingers up to the knuckles in a man's eye sockets.

 _You have got to be kidding me._

I'm yelling but I don't have a clue what the words are or if there are any, there's just so much noise and suddenly so much light and the world spins when the orderlies rush past me into the room. This was _my_ fault.

My pulse throbs so hard in my throat that I can feel the pressure behind my eyes, and the air feels too thick to breathe, like its sticking inside my trachea, clogging the air way. I don't know anything until I feel my body hit the ground, and then I know hot, hazy black.

When come to I don't dare open my eyes. I can see the bleached artificial glare burning orange through my eyelids, and that alone is enough to amplify the pounding in my skull. I try to sit up but I'm held down at the shoulders and something icy and rousing is pressed to my forehead.

"It's ok Harleen, just stay still for a little while ok?" It's Leland, speaking softly, patting back my hair. Her voice is soft enough to barely be audible over the clamour of feet and the clank of manacle chains. "We're just waiting for a gurney and then we'll get you over to medical."

I force my eyes open and blink away the tears as my pupils adjust, forcing myself up despite Leland's continued efforts to the contrary.

"I don't need a gurney," My voice is weak and dry so I swallow in attempt to wet my throat. "I didn't hit my head, it was low blood sugar." I try to stand, but I'm still a bit weak, and I accept Leland's aid as she slips her arm under mine and around my back.

"We can walk if you like, but I'm still taking you to medical-its protocol." She gives me a gentle but stern smile. I grumble, but there's not much I can do. I figure the more compliant I am, the faster I get to leave. Leland sighs and I look at her in question.

" Edward is in Iso. We had to- apparently he was becoming increasingly violent after the... _event_ , attacking the guards…it was a mess." She explains, tension creasing her brow. Oh my god, how did I forget? _Eddie…_

" I am so sorry Joan, I feel absolutely awful, and this is entirely my fault. I clearly misjudged his rate of progress and-" My voice is becoming strained with the effort of swallowing what I'm sure will be a torrent of tears. I _need_ to get out of here.

"Its alright, Harleen, this isn't your responsibility. Edward was showing very promising behavioural markers, and don't forget that _I_ approved his appointment." Seeing my lip wobble, she shakes her head and continues. " Is it _so_ bad that we want to give our patients the benefit of the doubt? That we see them as _human_? If we didn't take the risk of trusting them just a little, we wouldn't be able to treat them. _These things happen."_ She assures me; seemingly unaware of the sucker punch her words have just dealt me. _"_ Well- maybe not at other hospitals, but _definitely_ at Arkham."

I force a grateful smile because I need her to stop telling me how important it is to _trust_ my _patients_.

"How long will they keep him in solitary?" I ask to steer the topic away from myself. Leland doesn't meet my eyes.

"A few days- maybe a week."

I feel my thoughts beginning to whirl again and it riles the panic I had been trying to abate.

" He had a _breakdown_ in there Joan, I need to _see_ him! It's not ethical to deny him treatment after-"

"I'm _trying_ …" She's pleading with me now. "They aren't considering this an emotional outburst, Finch is treating it as a punishable offence. I'm doing my best, but it isn't looking good for the other inmate, he's in the I.C.U and…" She seems so hopeless that it almost breaks my heart, and I wonder just how often she has to deal with Finch's immoderately heavy hand.

"It's ok, I get it." I try _so_ hard to keep the disappointment from my voice but it leaks through and I see her cringe in my periphery.

"Hey…take the day off tomorrow, ok?"

"Kay' " I murmur, and she awkwardly squeezes my arm.

We finish the walk to medical in silence and though I thought I might be thankful for it, it only makes my own voice louder inside my head. I want to tear away from Leland and sprint for my car like the buildings about to explode.

I'm a model patient throughout the exam. I've been given the ok and a carton of apple juice, and I'm about to head home with my lousy bill of health when Leland pulls me aside outside the examination room. For a few seconds, she doesn't say a word, just stands there _scrutinizing_ me.

"Are you doing ok sweetie?" She asks, placing a hand lightly on my arm. Her skin feels much too warm against mine and bile rises inside my chest, burning so I gulp down against it. The reaction makes my placating nod entirely unconvincing.

"I'm fine, just a little um, family drama- nothing unusual." I pat her hand mechanically with my own, and she releases me.

"Well you aren't alone in that." She tilts her head sympathetically, giving me a tepid little smile. I can feel the tightness of my own expression but it's all I can muster. Thankfully, it seems to be enough.

"Thank you Joan, really."

" You can talk to me _anytime,_ Harleen."

You could tell the worst lie, but they'll believe it if it sounds enough like them.

I get to the highway before my hands start to shake but when the tears start blurring my vision I concede and pull over. The moment I bring the car to a stop I break down with ragged sobs that feel like they might break my ribs.

He was wrong about one thing- my father _never_ told me not to cry. _Sweet talker_ \- that's what my mom called him. He was all candy to be sure, but it was sugar free, sickeningly sweet but unsubstantiated. It never hurt too long that he didn't make it to my gymnastics meets- he always had pink roses and wonderful excuses. He was always _so_ sure that I'd blown them out the water, that none of them could have come close to me. And if I didn't come first then the judge had been impartial, _someone_ had cheated! It couldn't _possibly_ my fault, not his little angel, not his _perfect_ Harleen.

Why would I question that?

He was only ever mad when he was supposed to be, and he'd dole out a half-hearted punishment, and then slip me a chocolate behind moms back. When I got a little older he'd ask to borrow some of the money I kept locked away in a yard sale jewelry box, the money I had grease burns on my hands for, the money that was going to take me away.

He had no cash; he needed gas to get to work. He'd forgotten to stop at the bank on his way home and he was supposed to meet the boys at the pub to watch the game. He was always _so_ thankful, always promising to pay me back with ice cream as interest.

And then he would disappear, _just like that_. Weeks, or even months later when he showed up at the door I was so happy he was back that I never asked for the money, I never even _thought_ about it. He would pull me onto his lap and brush my hair as I cried and hugged him, as I begged him not to leave again.

He always said he wouldn't _dream_ of it, it was just that things had come up and he didn't want to come home until he had the _perfect_ present for me. And then he'd pull out the necklace, the bracelet, the porcelain doll- something we could never afford, something superfluous. At the age of 12 I didn't get that I needed braces more than tiny diamond earrings. I didn't realize that mom was mad because he should have put it toward the mortgage or in savings for Lucy and I. I didn't understand that she yelled at him because his father's nursing home was calling every month about late payments. I just thought she was stingy.

And that was _before_ she knew it was all stolen.

I'm sure she suspected- she knew about the gambling, about the way he got when he drank. She _knew_ , and every. Single. Time. She _still_ welcomed him back. She berated him, made him sleep on the couch, had him do the dishes, but she _never_ told him to leave, never told him not to come back because she was a _god_ -fearing woman, and god-fearing women _never_ leave their husbands.

Because God doesn't _want_ you to be happy. Sick bastard.

By the time I was in high-school he was in and out of county more often than a prostitute, and when he was out he was almost never home. The few times he was and I'd come in staggering drunk or limping from a 6-foot fall from scaffolding, he never said a thing beyond the usual superficial fatherly affections. When he was gone the next morning, my little jewelry box was left empty again without so much as a may I or an I.O.U.

He must have thought I was an _idiot_ for not finding a new place to hide my money. I just couldn't stand the fact that he might be going without. I didn't get it- _I was an easy mark._

He got a 3-year sentence near the end of my grade twelve year. For a while it was _awesome._ I was out of the house, living in my own (shitty) studio apartment. I was the _only_ person spending my money, and I started to realize just how fucked up it was to steal and lie the way he did. Then he started writing me letters.

He was seeing a psychologist in prison, he wanted to make amends, he wanted to _apologize_ for it all, and any notion of hating him flew out the window. So I wrote back, and I was there to pick him up on the day he got out. I brought him fresh clothes, a big mac, and a pack of Marlboro reds, and when he opened his arms to me I was six years old again and he was _finally back._

I set him up to stay with me for a while. Yeah, I noticed little bits of cash go missing here and there, and every time I asked him about the job search there was no news because he had a headache or he just _really_ wanted to get his resume right, but had I changed my hair? Because it looked radiant, and how were my classes going? I must be _so tired._ I'm not stupid. I knew what was happening- I just didn't want to believe it. I thought I would give him the benefit of the doubt.

But I couldn't keep denying it when he started asking me to lie for him though-to his parole officer, to the bank, to my _mother_.So I told the truth, and he went away again.

Every once and a while I'll get a call from a number I don't recognize and I just know it's him. And _every_ _time_ I have to force myself not to pick up.

My tear ducts seem to have emptied themselves, so I rub at my face with my sleeves to dry it up and give myself a few pinches to try and stop shivering. I feel oddly light when I get back onto the road, and I'm numb all the way home.

When I get there I'm consumed with an erratic energy and I funnel it into a fit of aggressive cleaning. I dust everything, I wipe it down, I sweep, I clean the windows and I mop the floors, and somewhere along the way, the hell gate spewing panic into my mind slows its deluge. So _no_ , I don't feel like I'm on the brink of implosion anymore- but I do feel _empty_.

I'm on my hands and knees scrubbing at the tile in my kitchen when SOMEONE STARTS BREAKING INTO MY FREAKING APARTMENT THROUGH THE LIVING ROOM WINDOW. Snapping back into my flesh, I leap up onto the island, and snatch a butcher knife from the drying rack, brandishing it above my head. I chuck my knife when the intruder's feet touch down soundlessly on the parquet flooring

The intruder steps easily out of the way, and the knife lodges itself into the wall next to the window, stabbing through my curtains.

"Thanks for the warm welcome Harley." Scoffs Selina, pushing back her hood.

I leap off the island, storming over to her.

"GO _DAMNIT_ SELINA!" I yowl, stomping a foot although _really,_ I'm just thankful she came, she came _tonight_ , and now I don't have to be alone. But I'm going to pretend I'm mad first. "Do you have _any_ idea how _alarming_ it is to _suddenly_ have a someone coming in your _eighth floor window?!_ AND I _JUST_. _CLEANED_. THE _FLOOR_." I shriek, and the ache of straining my vocal cords pulls me out of my mind. Selina shifts her weight and checks her watch. I note that she's wearing running gear- all black of course, as is her uniform. My heart skips a beat.

"You have 10 minutes before I'm gone. Starting now."

Any notion of faux rage is gone as I dart into my bedroom and I'm back out in full regalia within 5 minutes. She makes no comment on my punctuality, striding past me to my front door.

 _"Oh._ So the door is good enough _now_ is it? _"_ I mutter under my breath. Selina pauses with her hand on the doorknob.

"What was that?"

"Nothing!" I scamper after her, trying not to let the door hit me on the ass as I follow her out. I pause, fumbling in my rush to lock the door behind us, then jog to catch up as she marches for the stairwell. When she goes for the ascending stairway, I can't help a smug little smile- _I know what she's doing._ I plaster on some curiosity and confusion over my conceit.

When we get to the top, she bends and picks the lock. I stifle a giggle, and give a little gasp instead. She rolls her eyes at me before pushing the door open and waving me through.

"Selina what are we _doing_ up here?" I cross my arms and take little steps like I'm scared.

"This," She grins sadistically, "Is our warm up." She swivels and sprints to the edge of the building, performing a flawless leap across the gap. When she turns back, I've got my hands over my mouth.

"I _will_ leave without you!" She calls from the other side.

I toddle a bit closer to the edge, peeking over and then scrunching my eyes shut.

"I-I don't think I can _do_ this Selina! Can we just go for a run or-"

"It's not as far as it looks. Move it or lose it, Harley!"

I bite my lip but step back and start a deliberately shaky sprint. The moment I kick off though, I snap into proper form, flinging myself though the air and then letting my body fall into the impact so I can roll to stand on the other side. I beam smugly at my teacher, propping my hands on my hips. I as hoping for at least a _moment_ of surprise, but all I get is a single arched brow.

"When did you start?" She asks, seemingly, and disappointingly unimpressed.

" 'Few months ago." I can't help my sulk. She nods.

"You tucked a bit early." She says, flexing her wrists to stretch them out. My mouth pops open.

"I thought that was pretty good!"

"Do you want to be 'pretty good'?"

"…No." I admit, shoulders slumping down. She shrugs, and then she's running again.

"Come on!" she yells, and I do.

Selina runs me _hard_ for an hour straight. She doesn't pick the easy routes either, and she expects me to follow in her footsteps. Meaning it takes me _much_ longer and my journey is fraught with significantly more fumbles. But she does wait for me, and I appreciate that.

She forces me up higher buildings and across cables so thin they could be used as garrotes. She teaches me to climb a brick wall, and to my credit I _do_ think I pick it up pretty fast. I'm waning though and she can tell, so I collapse when she comes to a stop on a relatively large and empty roof.

Then I remember what she said. _That was just a warm up._ _Shit._ I think but really, I can't wait for the main events. I unzip my hoodie and pull a foot roll up out of my sports bra, barely waiting to separate the paper from the candy before chowing down. Selina laughs and it's a happy sound- not derisive, just a friend laughing at a friend.

I made a friend! I refrain from clapping.

I watch Selina stretch for a while, then begrudgingly get up to do the same, and find every muscle in my body _screaming_. The stretch as always, is ironically relieving and I breathe gleefully into the ensuing flood of endorphins. _I'm definitely going to need those._ Selina taps my shoulder when she's done and I straighten up.

"You said you know how to box?"

I nod emphatically.

"Ok, lets spar."

In the first round she dodges my attacks easily and pulls her punches just enough for me to block them, she's watching me though, quantifying my weaknesses. I don't think the next round will be so gentle.

I'm right.

This time Selina does not advance on me, she just waits, so I step forward into a ready position.

She does nothing.

I advance, and throw I a punch; she grabs my fist hallway to its destination and twists my arm to flip me over her shoulder. I take the fall relatively well and come up again to try and kick out the back of her knees but she sweeps her leg out of the way and into a high fan, which connects at my stomach. I fly back and the ground forces all the air out of my chest the moment I land.

"You could use a drop of subtlety." Cautions the drill sergeant.

I'm too busy trying to get my breath back to respond, but I go at her again and one more time I end up on my back.

I push through the inflated gravity of fatigue and I keep fighting. Though I keep going down and I don't land a thing I start to last a _little_ longer before she grounds me, and she starts to help me up after I go down. When my knees start to wobble, she graciously calls it a night, and I carefully pick my way home in my addled state.

Finally at home, I collapse onto the cold tile at the base of my shower with the water on hot. The pounding ache of the new bruises on my back and legs, the agony of my overworked muscles is such sensory overload that my mind is comfortingly quieted.

I'm still wet when I crawl into bed, but with my duvet wrapped tight around me I manage to stop shivering, and I _finally_ fall into unconsciousness.


	8. Chapter 8

**Authors Note:** Things are about to get toasty in this kitchen! Meaning this weeks chapter is heavy on discussion of sex, violence and personal gratification- no matter what form it takes. Our Harley is in for a real doozy of a revelation (that has been fairly obvious to the rest of us) and it's a definite milestone in this story. I also decided to explore the aftermath of a fairly well known jokescapade because I honestly just cant get enough of the guy- heres to hoping you guys feel the same way!

One more thing, the 'Marquis' that Joker references is the Marquis De Sade, for whom the term sadism was coined. De Sade was a raging libertine and spent his life in and out of prisons and asylums and that afforded him time to write several rather racy books, one of which is 120 Days of Sodom. In the book, February is called the month of the murderous pleasure, which Harley references in this chapter. I haven't actually read it because I don't think I could stomach it (not judging anyone who can) but I do think De Sade's life and focus is disturbingly fascinating. While Joker might have some mild appreciation for it, Harley is more likely to have obsessed over it- I think that in suppressing her natural taste and attraction to violence, she was probably quite driven to seek it out in a fictional/literary context. I also think that De Sade is a useful comparison to use when examining the Jokers sexuality- Joker's sadism being primarily non-sexual, though it does bring him pleasure, and De Sades sadism being a large part of his sexual vocabulary, a means instead of an end-goal.

As always, thank you for the follows, the favourites and the reviews- you guys are so awesome!

Love and kisses and just a few knives,

Sewer Angel

 **CHAPTER 8: cruel nothings and coffin talk**

I wake up on Thursday morning in so much agony that I can barely move. My legs crumple as I try to put weight on them getting out of bed and I reluctantly stay seated to massage them out. The shredded muscle tenses under my knuckles at first, but it warms and loosens as I knead it out. Eventually I'm able to stand again, albeit on a dreadfully wobbly foundation.

I refuse to think about my father or Eddie, or any of yesterday, choosing instead to focus on the fact that my _fingers_ hurt as I make my coffee- now how exactly does _that_ happen? I think about the strain across my pectorals brought on by the cinching of my knotted trapezius, and the way my joints feel raw, and the hot ache of the fresh scabs on my palms and knees. I accidentally cook my eggs to rubber, washing them down with a healthy dose of ketchup.  
And then, I think of Jack.

Poor, sweet, traumatized Jack. How different he looked then, how _helpless_. It was _painful_. An act to be sure…but don't all _great_ actors have to draw from experience? _You don't have to be alone anymore._

 _Bullshit_ , says the part of me that's hardened. Another, more tender part wraps the statement around itself like a blanket.

I drum my fingers against the countertop.

I need to do something- not work. I already cleaned, I can't bake to save my life, I don't want to watch TV… what do people _do_? It used to be so easy to fill time when I was a kid, it was so simple to distract myself- I didn't even have to _try_ I just _was_. I used to play the most elaborate imaginary games, and I was a top notch fort maker- _t_ _hat's_ what I'm going to do!

I race for my linen closet, grabbing the two biggest sheets I have and safety-pinning them together. I move two of the chairs from my kitchen table to sit across from my couch facing outward before draping my Siamese blanket over top. Then I go about removing the couch cushions to block up any gaps in coverage and collecting the rest of the pillows and a few fluffier blankets to make a cozy little nest on the inside.

Once I'm done, I crawl giddily into the plush cave with my laptop and some gummy worms left over from the binge I had with Ashley, settling down to watch funny cat videos. The cats turn to a video of a toddler running over another child in one of those peddle cars, then a few videos of people tripping out after wisdom tooth-removals. Eventually that leads to a prank compilation- people dropping live spiders on their sleeping siblings, blasting roman candles at their friends- there's even a guy dressed up as a giant banana who tries to steal a cops hat and predictably gets Billy clubbed.

The next video comes up on cue in a playlist while I search through the bag for one of the red and blue worms. I don't really know what I was watching before, and to be honest I'm not paying attention until I hear the laughter.

My eyes reflexively glue themselves to the screen and I watch a man in a bat-suit stroll languidly into view. Its not batman though, and that is _very_ obvious because the chin jutting out beneath the cowl is chalk white, and the eyes flashing from its depths are electric-lime and wild. Also because the bat-suit is clearly a children's costume, the kind with the silly fake muscles- _and_ it's been dyed purple, the emblem colored to match his eyes.

"Hiya Bats!" Chirps the Joker, taking a casual lean against the brick wall at his back. He hooks his thumbs into the plastic utility belt slung around his narrow hips. By the lighting and the background rush, I assume he's outside- probably an alleyway. I'm surprised that I haven't seen this video, and that thought makes me flush.

"I know you've been… well, you've been having a _rough_ time recently," His mouth curves down with the sympathy in his words "But you can't let that get you down, after all, it's _hard_ keeping pets alive! You must be feeling awfully lonesome out there in your cave, bat-sniffling into your bat-Kleenexes. But cry no more Bat-baby! Uncle Joker's here to tell you, _you don't have to be alone."_ He grins, and it leaps up his scars like fire on kerosene.  
 _Gee, where have I heard that before?_

I gulp hard, suddenly feeling tensed and skittish, the sugar burning my throat. My hand jumps to the space bar but I can't seem to go through with the action, because he's darting forward, grabbing the camera from his cinematographer and he's staring into my eyes. _No he's not._

But he _is._ He pierces the lens like _seeing_ you is small change, like he knows your name, your social insurance number, and _exactly_ what you did last night, all because you looked into his eyes via LCD.

" You don't need a _side-kick,_ Batsy- they're too much _work_ , it slows you down! You need a pa- _HA_! _You need a partner."_ He giggles, and does a little whirl, smearing the alleyway sickeningly behind him with the low-quality film. I glance down and see that the video was uploaded a few years ago, just after Jason Todd was killed.

 _Oooh._ I get it _-_ ' _It's hard keeping pets alive'._

A guilty little snicker escapes me because _god,_ it's just so _rude._ I try to tamp it down when he passes the camera back, but the way he looks in that _ridiculous_ suit- it ends at his elbows and knees, and god, the _tiny_ cape- I start to loose it on the down-low, bursting with quiet little erratic giggles that I can't suppress.

The clown strikes a pose, looking stoically into the distance, and I snort.

"Now I know I've been rather _naughty_ , and I know we've had our differences" He turns back to the camera and clasps his hands over his heart like he's about to get down on one knee. "But can't tragedy unite even the greatest adversaries? I know I'm your man, Bats, _I always have been._ And I'm going to prove it!" His face lights up and he bounds playfully to take cover at the mouth of the alley. A few people walk by, somehow without noticing his crouch in the shadows.

But when a dark haired teenage boy passes by, he throws himself into an exaggerated leap, flicking out his cape. The understandably startled boy goes down quickly with the J's fist slamming into his face from above. He rolls the kid over onto his stomach, and cuffs his hands behind his back. The kid starts to scream for help, so my patient winds him with a boot.

"Look, _mom_ , no guns!" he cries. " Nothing wrong with a little _bodily harm_ though _right?_ " He chuckles, and descends on the whimpering boy.

"Hi _Jason."_ He giggles. The kid's face goes slack- of _course_ it does.

 _Of course_ that's his name.

"Don't worry about the cuffs- nothing _kinky_ , I _promise_." he vows to the boy, who seems to think that if he squeezes his eyes tight enough the clown might go away. J turns his head back to the camera, cupping a hand around one side of his mouth as if speaking directly to his best frenemy. " _Actually_ Bats, that's a disclaimer you might want to think about _tucking_ into your repertoire." He drops his hand and stands, taking a few steps toward the camera. Behind him, Jason tries to roll over so he can push himself to his feet, but burley men in bad polyester superhero costume materialize to hold down their boss's prisoner.

"As your new partner, I want to bring something _new_ to the team. You know incarceration doesn't work in the long run, and that's precisely where I come in. _I provide_ _treatment_." He switches out a shinning straight razor to punctuate the statement. "Now I'm no doctor, bats, but I have a lifetime of experience with _laughter-_ who needs prozac when you can bust a gut? _"_ Raucous, nearly painful peels of giggles burst out of him as he lunges back to his prey.

He's saying something, but it isn't audible over the boy's horrible screams, and Jason is thrashing _quite_ a _lot_. When the Joker stands up he hauls the kid with him. Jason isn't screaming now, if he did it would widen the smile that's been cut into his face. The rift is ragged and bright red, and I feel like can smell the iron tang of it _._ No part of me wants to pause the video now, and that _sickens_ me.

"See? All better!" Quips the clown, tossing Jason back to his counterfeit justice-league lackeys, who promptly stuff him into an unmarked van. J does a little skip towards the curb and flings out his arms at the vehicle as it swerves away, disappearing into traffic.

"And _just_ this once I'll do your job too and drop them of to grandpa Gordon for a sleepover." He turns back to the camera with a ten million watt grin tacked roguishly onto his face, and he wiggles his brows. "See? I'm _committed_ ; I'm in it for the long haul, Batsy- don't worry, you don't have to make a choice now!" He throws up his hands, waving them as if to placate the object of his endeavors. " _Sleep_ on it, let it _marinate_ , and give me a ring- _you know my number."_ He cackles, blows a kiss, and skips out of the frame.

The video ends, and I sit in the darkness of my blanket fort staring at the blank screen for only a few seconds before I compulsively start researching the event.

Turns out that the van in the video wasn't the only van. That also wasn't the only Jason, _or_ the only Joker, for that matter.

There were at _least_ 6 vans that day, each equipped with its own "Joker". They caught four of them, not including the original. They were men with a passably similar build, all wearing elevator shoes under his signature garb. Only one of them talked, and he was later offed by his former boss- _obviously._

Finally, there were twenty-two Jasons that day, plus one that got interrupted halfway through the job. The rest were dropped off bound and sadistically gagged at GCPD precincts around the city. The twenty-third was rescued and brought promptly to the hospital by Batman himself after yet another daring capture of the real slim-crazy ( _I know, I hate myself for that pun)._ A reporter who spoke to an "insider source" at the hospital relayed that Joker was unusually pleasant on intake, but that the amount of physical damage he had sustained was also unparalleled.

I scramble out of my fort, nearly knocking it down in my haste and I blink at the suddenly blinding light of the outside world. Stumbling half-blind into my bedroom, I shake out the kinks in my still angry muscles as I go. I tear through the stack of files next to my bed until I find the one containing his medical history and I open it, plopping myself down. But then I realize how _big_ my tiny apartment suddenly feels, and I retreat to the secure warmth of my fort.

Once re-settled, I page through to the right date and pull out the intake form. My insides go sub-zero- Skull fracture, concussion, a broken _femur_ , multiple 2nd degree burns on his arms and torso, and 8 broken ribs- one of which _punctured_ a _lung_ … I can't read the rest; my hands are shaking so badly that I can't hold the paper steady, so I push the offending item out of my sanctuary. I curl into a tight ball because I have no idea what else to do.

 _Batman did this._

Superhero _my ass-_ this is more than enough to prove to me that the _Rat_ is no better than all the people he _terrorizes_ , _brutalizes_ , and then _locks_ away. And people _idolize_ him! How twisted is that?

I don't believe the story Jack told about Batman killing his wife and unborn child, but I _do_ believe he creates them, all the fractured minds that fixate on him. How could they not? The costume, the voice, his _entire_ being, its all for the fear. It's contrived and ridiculous but it is extremely effective. It pulls them in and then he shatters them, jagged edges snag on his cape so they can't let go.

It's a vicious cycle and _he_ started it. Batman is a goddamn _hypocrite_.

 _A punctured lung_ \- he was _bleeding_ into his _lung_. _Oh_ of course he won't _kill_ them, he needs them alive, he _needs_ them to keep feeding his delusions and they need him to feed theirs. And they call him a _hero_. I sigh, rubbing at my closed eyes with the palms of my hands

 _Great_. Now _I'm_ fixating too.

Ok activity time- activities that are not work related in any way…what do people _do_?

Baths. People take baths, so I run myself one, and pour in a copious amounts of body wash to make bubbles, but once the bubbles are gone I realize the bath offers too much opportunity for thought. I drain the tub, toweling off and going back into the kitchen but then I just stand there dripping, like something fun and distracting is going to present itself unprompted.

Eventually I end up trying to bake something. _Trying_ is the operative word. They taste awful and I have no idea how it's humanly possibly to do… _this_ to chocolate chip cookies. Maybe in self-punishment I force five down the hatch, and by the penultimate cookie I've morphed into some sobbing, crumb-covered Gollum. I crawl back into my cave- _fort_ , with my _precious_ snack and a can of whipped cream to disguise the taste. I soak the inside of my fort with tears, and I fill my mouth with highly processed dairy-product. _Rinse and repeat._

I chuckle at that, and the sudden exhale has me blowing a snot bubble, which makes me laugh a little louder, and when I open my eyes they've cleared a bit. My hand falls from my face, hitting the keyboard and bringing the screen to life. I flinch away from the light at first, but when I look back, I'm looking at him, grinning on his way into the asylum.

 _Coming to me._

The thought makes me smile and curl in on myself. I go back to YouTube and I search his name- I can't help it, I'm grasping at straws here. I feel pathetic for it but I end up spending the rest of the evening with him, and for what it's worth I don't feel quite as wretched. I fall asleep half way through a gassing, and the laughter follows me into my dreams.

I wake up when an errant sleep-flail brings my fort crashing down around me, and I thrash my way out of the wreckage, throat too dry to voice my panic. Once I've managed to start breathing again, I extract my laptop and inspect it for injury. Finding it unscathed, I check the time, and then flop back onto the mound of pillows and blankets, tempted to go back to sleep right here. Its 12:30 and I feel like I've been hit by a bus. Somehow I manage to get myself on my feet, and I grab one of the blankets to bring back to my bed, huddling under it eager to fall back asleep.

When I wake up the second time, it's to the sound of my alarm. I fumble for my phone to turn it off, noting that I feel only marginally more rested than I did when I woke up at 12. If its possible my muscles hurt worse than they did yesterday.

I take a shower in an attempt to wake up but it doesn't do much, so I down coffee until my hands shake and then speed off to work. When I arrive, I head straight to my office and I fill the time until my first session with paperwork. I keep for the rest of the day.

Pushed into the back of my mind is a nagging voice saying I should go see Eddie, but the thought makes my ears fill with static- I just _can't_ deal with that today. I'll visit tomorrow. I _promise_. I'll feel better then.

I have a meeting to prepare for anyway, no matter how informal it might be. My preparation consists mostly of reading through my notes and highlight key points so I can compile a list of items to discuss. Either way I'll bring the master binder I keep here at the office- I would rather be over prepared than caught unaware.  
That's why I _always_ have Band-Aids.

Joan checks in on me several times, bringing me coffee or a snack and hinting rather forcefully that I should feel free to talk to her. I put on my best smile and I think its pretty convincing. I _do_ actually feel ok when I'm working. If anything I'm annoyed with her for breaking my focus but I can't say that, so I politely brush her off and steer the topic away until she takes her leave.

When I get home at the end of the day, I go about making myself a little more presentable. I pull my hair out of its utilitarian bun and, satisfied with the ringlets its been coiled into, I decide to leave it down and pin back the front. I trade my sweater and jeans for an Ash-tailored tuxedo jacket and a pair deep burgundy pants, then I call a cab to avoid worrying about parking, and I occupy myself by worrying about traffic instead. When I find my driver to be rather competent, I switch to worrying about my imminent meeting.

Despite the fact that my initial interest was motivated by a short-term reward, this _does_ represent an opportunity to further my career and start making a name for myself in a very public way. If I pull this off, I'll make more than enough to pay off my loans- I'll get research grants, _and hey_ , maybe I'll even get some respect!

That would be nice.

I sigh and rub at my forehead, going over my summarized notes one more time like I don't already have them memorized. Maybe I should have driven myself- at least then I would have a distraction. I fumble with my money when we come to a stop, spilling my change all over the floor of the cab and apologizing profusely as I frantically gather it back up and hand it over. I leave my driver a heavy tip to make up for it and he seems heartened.

I'm thankful for the cold, dry air that greets me when I step out of the cab. The chill is a firm hand to shock me out of my nerves and ground me, and I set my shoulders as I head into Caplansky's. I feel immediately more comfortable when I'm greeted by a familiar waitresses, who asks me how I've been and seats me in my favorite booth, regaling me with tales of her most recent string of bad dates. I reluctantly let her get back to work when I spot her manager giving her the stink eye, and then I sink back into the plump red vinyl seat, looking around the restaurant and trying to spot new staff.

 _Yeah_ , I used to come here a lot.

It started in college because Ash and I were obsessed with one of the waiters. His name was Brad Kitt but we called him Brad klit- I know, _real_ mature. What can I say?We came because we wanted to smoke some meat, and we stayed because we liked the smoked meat. Seriously, the Caplanskys smoked meat sandwich is the food of the gods, and I will not relent on that.

It's not just the god-sandwiches though, trust me I've tried it at home. It's the atmosphere, the people, the _music_ … I love this place.  
First of all: red. _Every_ where.  
From the aforementioned red vinyl booths, to the shiny cherry-jukebox by the bar, and the collection of vintage ads and magazine covers that adorn the exposed brick walls walls, all in shades of my favorite hue. The ads aren't re-prints or posters either; they're all original pieces of Gotham history, curated by the owner. They've accumulated organically over the many years this place has been here. And that's the second part- this restaurant has _character_.

It is a function of it's many constituent parts, including of course, the people that work here- and they _are_ wonderful, but it feels like an autonomous being. It welcomes you through the waitress who greets you, the warmth of the fireplace gives you a hug when you sit down, and then you get to relax, and eat, and let it tell you stories through the jukebox, which is usually being commandeered by a group of seniors who play primarily 50's pop.

Actually, for that reason I've come to prefer eating here alone so I can really enjoy it, but I'm glad I chose it for this meeting. I feel instantly more confident in this setting- I'm on my turf, this is a home game. _I can do this_! I get a little too fired up and have to restrain a fist pump, giggling at myself

"Harleen?" The deep voice from the phone startles me out of my reverie, and I look up to see Simon Baker standing next to the table. He wears a sport jacket and a pair of dark jeans- casual but trendy for a man of his age. Then again its his job to look like this, he acts the face of the company to clients after all- I get the feeling he's rather good at it.

"Simon," I stand, offering my hand a little self-consciously. "its nice to meet you in person."

He's got deep umber skin and warm amber eyes with happy crinkles radiating out from the corners. His tightly cropped hair is curly and white, and when he returns my smile I notice a little gap between his front teeth.

"You too, Harleen. Lets order, shall we? No sense in putting off the fun part of the meeting." He rubs his comfortably pudgy middle.

I laugh, nodding eagerly in agreement and then I wave over our waitress, Carly. After we order, I once again feel a little rush of nerves, unsure about exactly _how_ this is supposed to go. He breaks the silence mercifully.

"Why don't you tell me a little bit about yourself Harleen?"

I draw a blank. _Come on, you've done stuff._

"Well, I have a PhD in psychiatry from Gotham University." It's the first thing that comes out of my mouth so I stick to that track, pulling achievements from my throat like one of those never-ending magicians scarves. "Prior to working at Arkham, I took an internship at Blackgate, following which, I co-authored a study on mental disorder in meta-individuals at Belle Reve. Arkham seemed like a natural next step, and I've enjoyed my residence there immensely."

Simon smiles, folding his wrinkled hands on the table.

"You have very impressive credentials for someone so young." He means it, and I puff up a little. " Still- and I don't mean to ruffle your feathers here, but I understand you were assigned the Joker in a sort of last ditch effort?"

"He's been a chronically difficult case to say in the least." I laugh, erasing the concern from his face. "He's turned away over 30 doctors- and when I say turned away, I mean he's either played the silent game, he's driven them to break down, or he's killed them. When he was brought in this time all other options had been exhausted- at that point it was me or one of the orderlies." I add that last bit with a self-deprecating smile, and Simon laughs.

"Well it certainly turned out alright given the circumstances. But with his history…you must have been at least a _little_ hesitant to take him on."

Was I hesitant? I don't really know, and it prompts a little laugh as I take a sip of my coke.

"Looking back, I probably should have been more hesitant than I was. That first session was a _challenge_ \- actually, they all are." I admit with a nod. "but he's… _interesting_."

"That's a polite way to put it." Simon chuckles, raising his bushy eyebrows. "I'll admit, I agree. And from our preliminary polls it's quite obvious that our readers do too."

That thought makes me happy. One of the three criteria for mental disorder is that the behavior must me deviant, so as a psychiatrist you're always scrutinizing your own beliefs and actions, trying to compare them to a standard- its hard not to. It's nice to know that my interest in him might not be so… _deviant_.  
In fact it could be perfectly normal.

Our conversation takes a small detour when Carly reappears with our food and we share a moment of silence in gustatory delight. After Simon's first (and my third) bite, he puts down his sandwich and wipes his mouth sedately with a napkin.

I've noticed all of his movements are slowed- even his speech, but somehow it isn't annoying. It doesn't come off as stupidity or laziness. Its like he takes the time to consider everything- not in a controlling, type A kind of way, more like he wants to _mean_ all of his action. It's a rare quality to say in the least, and I found it almost perturbing at first, but it's become calming. I feel myself slowing down a little with him and it clears my mind enough to speak confidently.

"Honestly," I say, after swallowing my bite, "from a purely psychiatric perspective, he is _fascinating_. His ability put on these different characters at will in combination with the Joker persona- which seems to have _completely_ taken over the original persona- it's just entirely unheard of." I feel the involuntary smile that comes on, and his eyes crinkle at my enthusiasm.

"I understand you two have some sort of…unique bond." He says it casually, and I'm sure his choice of words was uncalculated, but the word _bond_ makes me shift in my seat.

"I wouldn't go _that_ far…" I trail off into some surprisingly nervous laughter. "He tolerates me and he seems moderately amused by my presence." I conclude

Simon chuckles through his food, covering his mouth as he swallows

"That's a stark contrast to his relationships with previous doctors- why do you think that is?" He tilts his head slightly with the question.

"I- well I'm not entirely sure. I've taken a slightly unorthodox approach with a fairly open style of dialogue. I mostly let him drive the conversation, and I _attempt_ to keep him on track when I can. He doesn't make it easy, but so far I've generated significantly more usable data than my predecessors. At this point we know that there are things he is either unwilling or unable to talk about, but we keep trying to _make_ him. Because of that single-minded approach, we've ignored the wealth of untapped information that he wants to _give_ us."

Simon nods as I speak, his brow pursed attentively while he munches, reminding me to dig into my own platter.

"What kinds of things have you discussed so far?" He asks, grabbing a few fries and plunging them into his ketchup. I swallow and wipe some errant mustard off the side of my mouth.

"We've primarily focused on his beliefs and feelings about his… _activities_. We've touched on his views about human nature, his costuming- I _have_ tried to delve into his past, but he's entirely unreceptive and I don't want him to ice me out. Oh! I also got an account of the Christmas parade attack." I'm pretty proud of that last bit. "We're still in the early stages of course, there's a lot to learn before I'll be anywhere near ready to write a book." I know I probably shouldn't add the disclaimer, but suddenly my findings feel inadequate and I don't want to oversell myself.

Simon puts up his hands appeasingly.

"Of course, Harleen. And it sounds like you've gathered a fair amount in your short time with him." He moves his now empty plate to the side and clasps his hands on the table in front of him. "My goal tonight is simply to give you some direction, things my employers and subsequently our readers, will want to read about."

I pick at my fries and nod intently- a little direction might be nice.

"So," He says, "Based those polls I mentioned, we have three main areas of interest: His past- which sounds down right impossible to pull through on, so we'll put that one aside for a moment." He mimes it, like the topic is in a little invisible box. "Then we have his 'activities' as you so delicately put it- our readers didn't use such gracious terms." He chuckles. I'm assuming he gets to read some very _colorful_ message board comments. "And because they're a bunch of filthy voyeurs, there was an overwhelming demand for information about his sexuality."

I stare into my hands, suddenly all too aware of the minutia of my facial expression.

"Um- what about it?" I squeak, and then wince at the pitch of my voice. Simon quirks an eyebrow.

"Anything really… He's never shown any sort of _preference_ \- aside from whatever it is that he has for Batman- definitely ask about Batman, they're _very_ interested in that particular relationship." He laughs again, rolling his eyes. I can't ask the Joker about his sexually, there is _no_ way, nope _, definitely not_ , no-can-do-

"Uh… Ok." _Shit._

"Wonderful!" Simon exclaims heartily. "Like you said, we're in the preliminary stages, there's lots to learn, and there will be more polls."

I'm trying to set the sexuality thing aside for the moment because it impairs my cognitive ability.

"So, about his past-" I start, putting the invisible box back between us to distract myself more than him. Simon smiles at my reversed mimicry.

"We can expect to feel some pressure from the higher ups on that one, but if you really don't think it's plausible I'm prepared to back you." I feel my shoulders slump a little though I hadn't noticed them hiking up, and I give Simon a grateful nod as I finish my last fry.

"and Harleen? Relax; none of this is the end of the world. We're going to write a great book but that happens _one_ step at a _time_ \- and when you're my age, you won't remember it anyways." I nod, trying to mask the way my smile has tightened.

"I really appreciate your input Simon, Thank you."

I'm not worried about the book itself- not really. I was originally afraid of being assessed, but this meeting has been far from evaluative and I don't think you could feel real pressure in Simons presence even if you had just mainlined amphetamines.  
I'm worried because I've just realized I'll be seeing _him_ tomorrow.

I manage to engage Simon in a fairly shallow conversation until we part ways outside the restaurant, asking the go-to questions about his kids and wife though I'm doing a terrible job of keeping up and it makes me feel incredibly conspicuous.

I decide to forgo the cab home, favoring a chilly walk to snap me back to my senses. I'm trying to figure out what _exactly_ it is that has me feeling so apprehensive. It's highly likely that _he's_ heard about Eddies breakdown, and he might try to bring that up. _God_ , I should really go see Eddie but the thought still floods my stomach with acid. He could bring up my father again- god knows that's the _last_ topic I want to return to.

The worst thought, the one that makes the superficial layers of my skin heat with fever while my insides turn to ice, is nothing but an imaginary vignette. I never get far into it before my mortification cuts the reel, but the bit that plays on a loop is clear enough. It's a bit different every time, altered wording in attempt to make it sound slightly more confident- more objective. But the words aren't the problem.  
I am.

 _Its just sex Harleen. Remember when you used to do that? Fun times._

It's _just_ sex- not maiming, murder, and mayhem. Then again, with himI might be speaking too soon. Still, I'm a _doctor_ , and this is a clinical issue. I definitely don't remember _ever_ having had this problem with other patients. I sigh loudly enough that my doorman shoots me a concerned glance as I head for the elevator.

I should be in my element here, sex is right at the junction of physiology and psychology where my field thrives. Sexual behaviors- or lack thereof, can be an incredibly accurate marker of mental disorder. This could be a breakthrough if approached correctly- especially given that so far no one has _really_ asked him about it. And yet, every time I try to put the two concepts together I mentally flinch away.

 _This is ridiculous._

And that's why I decide I need to get it out of the way- I can just tell the longer I wait, the weirder I'll get, and he'll _know_. I'm going to _have_ to ask at some point, right? That day may as well be tomorrow, and despite the fact that my mind keeps trying to suppress the topic as a whole, I _am_ discordantly curious. The opponent motivations play a dizzying game of tug of war inside me.

Most of the inmates… _relieve_ themselves periodically- some more reliably than others- and you can only hide so much motion under the thin standard-issue asylum blankets. That is to say it's entirely possible to tell who's been ringing the devils doorbell and how often, but well… he doesn't appear to. But then again like Simon said, he doesn't show much preference in general. _Sure_ he makes suggestive comments, but he uses them exclusively to perturb, never to indicate interest….

It's an interesting anomaly. The one diagnosis that most people _can_ agree upon is psychopathy, which is actually one of the strongest predictors of _hyper-_ sexuality. The classic psychopath is sensation seeking, impulsive, and essentially free from fear and anxiety- the perfect cocktail for casual, uninhibited, and almost definitely dangerous sexuality– _but not for him…_

I spend the rest of the evening playing a maddening game of mental Ping-Pong. Desperate to escape it, my very mature solution and highly professional solution is to drink myself into oblivion. Which, to my credit is _incredibly_ effective- _well_ , it is until I have to wake up at 6 am and I remember why I started drinking in the first place. Last night's wine fogs my vision and coats my tongue with a sour heat, but I feel considerably better after a quick shower and an actual breakfast. And coffee- _all_ _of the coffee_.

Actually, I'm so jazzed up from the caffeine that I nearly forget I have to get dressed. I pick out a red blouse and a black pencil skirt, not paying attention as I'm still running through a million different, _equally awkward_ ways to ask the Joker how he likes his…chicken choked. _Jesus Christ_ \- I fan away the 6th blush of the hour. Originally I thought that I might get used to it if I just kept rehearsing but that is _clearly_ not working.

When I turn to look at myself in the mirror I realize this skirt is a little shorter than I thought, and _wow yeah,_ good thing I'll be wearing a lab coat because I don't have time to change! I grab a pair of pumps, screeching when they stab me in the bruised thigh as I clatter out the door, and then stumble around the elevator to put them on.

Edging my car out of the parking garage, I use one hand to twist my un-brushed hair into a flimsy knot, and I take a quick peek in the rear view mirror to note that I will definitely need to put on some makeup when I get to my office.

I continue coffee chugging and my plotting on arrival- actually it might be more accurately described as brooding. I swipe on mascara and red lipstick in the hand mirror I keep at my desk, and I'm quite pleased to find that the shade matches my top.

I head down to the therapy room a bit early again- this time out of sheer restlessness rather than strategy. I half regret it because time seems to speed up on arrival and I don't feel ready to see him. I hear the elevator ding like its right next to me and then the clack of steel toed footfalls fill the space, masking the canvas and rubber clad steps that I know must accompany them. My back goes pin straight and I put away my useless notes, trading them for my timer. Then I stare bullets into the cinder wall in front of me until the door opens, and I turn to face it, trying to shake some of the tension from my face.

I've come to expect a jaunty entrance, but today he walks in sedately, slouching and thrusting his bound elbows out for Bradley to undo the jacket. Once freed, he darts to his chair and pulls it right up to the table. One of his knees taps mine when he slides into his seat, and I jump. His mouth twitches upward, and he studies me for a moment with slits for eyes before he whirls on Bradley.

"Cover your ears you _ingrate!"_ growls J, and his already disheveled hair flops further into his face. The guard jumps and gives a huff, but he complies. The Joker twists around, huddling back up and leaning over the table towards me. His expression is fraught with malcontent as he wipes a hand over his scared face. My hands jerk in my lap like they want to reach out and hold his steady.

"They're _starving_ me Quinzel."

He _does_ look a bit gaunt… and he's already so thin!

"They're _wha_ -" One part of my brain is _fuming_ at me for not even indulging in a moment's skepticism. The other nearly has me storming out to go tear Finch a new one.

" _Tapioca_ is _not_ desert." Spits my patient with a look of utmost disgust and I almost choke on my premature outrage.

"Oh my _god_."

"Oh don't _you_ go acting all _high and mighty,_ toots," He snarls, jabbing a bony finger at me. " _you_ get to go home and eat _whatever_ you want! _I_ have to stay here and eat _whatever_ they give me." He flips a hand carelessly over his shoulder. "Most of it tastes like ebola-" I shudder at the comparison and he chuckles- perhaps despite himself, as he then clears his throat to glare at me. "The _chocolate_ _pudding_ though…" He groans, closing his eyes and I blink rapidly. "that was the _highlight_ of my day- fuck, I'll even take the butterscotch! But _tapioca_. Is _not_. _Pudding_."

This is about _pudding_. He's not mad when they beat him or use electro-shock as punishment, but he is _livid_ when they give him the wrong desert. I hide a giggle behind my hands, and he rolls his eyes at me for it.

"You have to forgive me for not being outraged that they switched the snacks." I proffer incredulously.

"You know I _could_ have killed the cow that brought me that repulsive slime? But I _didn't_. I came to you about it- should I _regret_ that?" Though his glare is scorching and his tone is biting, I suddenly feel quite giddy and it throws me off guard- _he came to me._ I can't help but smile.

"Ok Mistah J, I'll take care of it." The ease of my promise seems to surprise him, and his brow puckers momentarily before he sniffs haughtily.

"You're saving _lives_ doctor." He says it with grave sincerity, and I laugh even though I'm shaking my head at his histrionics.

And then I don't have anything to say.

Actually I _do_ \- I have a million questions; it's just that none of them are worded in a way that doesn't make me want to start digging my own grave. I feel each millisecond acutely, and the silence is so piercing that I can't think.

" _Eh_ , what's up Doc?" His Bugs Bunny impression snaps me out of my panic, and he cocks an eyebrow predatiously to snap me back into it. " You look a little… _bothered_." His voice drops a few octaves when he says it and I swear I can feel the rumble.

 _Was that suggestive?_ I'm being paranoid.

"Went for a run this morning, still tired. Shall we begin?" My machine gun dictation is entirely monotone.

He tilts his head in answer and as the weight of his stare begins to gather on me I have to look away. But then I _have_ to look back.

"Mistah J," I begin, staring at the bridge of his nose to avoid meeting his eyes directly. "In many ways you're the gold-standard for psychopathy, but there's one item that always drags your score down."

"I know, I know. I have a soft spot for puppy dogs- I'm _working_ on it!" He throws up his hands in playful exasperation.

"You don't have a history of promiscuous sexual behavior." I choke on that but I do manage to get it out- if only because I'm focusing intently on a few loose threads that poke out from his collar.

"Well I don't _kill_ and _tell_ , Doc- I'm a _gentleman_." I won't look at his face but I can feel the gluttonous grin that spreads there.

"I think you use the ambiguity of your sexuality to make people uncomfortable."

"Is it working?" My gaze flicks up at that. He's got one eyebrow cocked, his tongue poised against the corner of his lip, and his long fingers play a drum roll against his thigh. _Undeniably._

Asshole.

"When you came in last time, you had several bullet wounds." I realize that beginning isn't particularly distinctive- a bullet for him is about at special as a paper-cut- but don't worry, this story gets better. I got it straight from the horses mouth when the horse came out of the operating theater. "Dr Callahan was in the middle of removing one of the bullets when you invited him to penetrate you with more than a scalpel, and then you pretended to...finish when he was extracting the last fragments."

"Good times" He lets his eyes go glassy and distant, his smile lazy and crooked, like he's remembering an old lover's ministrations.

"My _point_ is that you have a history insinuating your deviant sexual preferences for show, but you don't seem to follow through."

His eyes snap back to me, and the energy there is so feral that I feel like I'm being flayed.

"Would you _like_ me to follow through, doc?" His tongue darts into the corner of his mouth again, but its passage across his lip is leisurely. I want to look away because I'm suddenly worried that my eyes will show too much though I don't know what I'm trying to hide.

"I didn't-"

"Why do _you_ do the nasty _Harley?_ " It's nearly a growl.

" _What?_ " I sputter, accidentally flinging the pen I hadn't noticed I'd been spinning between my fingers. He dodges it with a burst of laughter.

"No need to get _violent_ , It's a simple question!" He leans sideways to pick up the pen, twiddling it at a hypnotic pace. I almost feel soothed by the repetitive motion until I remember how dangerous something like a pen becomes in his hands. All that adrenaline comes back like a punch to the chest but I don't dare ask for it back. "How come people do the horizontal tango- Make whoopy? Stuff the muffin? _Need anymore euphemisms?"_

I can't for the life of me hide how overheated I've suddenly become- I can't even seem to meet his eyes, so my gaze darts around awkwardly as I struggle to form a response that isn't _incredibly_ embarrassing. In stark contrast he's leaning back in his chair with an ankle resting on his knee- we may as well be discussing croquet.

"To strengthen emotional bonds." I swallow and he quirks an eyebrow like he somehow has a more _accurate_ conception of my sexual history. " _And uh, to get off._ " That last bit is muttered at such a speed that it's barely audible. He flashes a roguish grin, baring those perfect tombstone teeth.

"See, _emotional bonds_ have never been my _forte_ \- aside from the ones I make with a knife." His voice darkens and thickens to ink. "But getting off- _oh_ I'm good at _that_. It's my whole zeitgeist!" He exclaims. "If it feels good, _I do it_ \- I just don't _get off_ in the most conventional ways-" I cringe every time he repeats my juvenile wording. "People can be _so_ narrow-minded, y' _know_?" He taps the pen to his temple. "There are a million roads to nirvana that don't involve all that _ungainly_ thrusting and grunting _,_ and _really_ , in the end, what is it worth- fifteen seconds of _endogenous E_?" he scoffs. "It's a short-term, shallow high. It's the difference between methadone and heroin."

I cough, realizing with chagrin that it's my turn to say something again.

"Most people don't get off on terror and depravity." The words feel awkward; they don't fit properly in my mouth

"Only because they haven't _tried_! And hey, _it takes one to know one kiddo."_

I'll ignore that last bit.

" What um- _activities_ would you say are the most…salient for you?" I'm trying so hard not to use specific terms that I may as well be talking about his favourite board game. Apparently he agrees because he can't seem to keep a straight face.

" _Salient?_ \- Doc you're a _riot_ today!" He shakes his head at me indulgently, "But to answer your question-" All his laughter disappears abruptly but that dangerous little smile remains. "- I like _begging_." He tilts his head with the statement, and suddenly I'm fifteen, in the repertoire theater staring into Hannibal Lector's caged face at the expense of attending to the boy next to me. "I like the taste of tears and the way a _nice pair of legs_ will _shake_ when you _cut off a toe_." His pupils dilate, and he tilts his head. "I like the smell of fear."

I clutch my hands so that they don't shake visibly, and I come dangerously close to sniffing myself.

"Humans aren't able to consciously to perceive the pheromonal fear reaction." It's the first thing that pops out of my mouth, and it sounds _ridiculously_ sassy. I manage to contain a yelp when my fist pushes into one of the massive bruises that decorate my thighs. As the muscle screams and clenches around my knuckles, I silently thank Selina for sparing my face.

His lips part slowly, and his smile widens.

"Really?" It's a challenge, not a question.

Holy- _moly_ , it is _really_ hot in this room! I need to talk to maintenance about this or something.

"Does…" I wince. "Well, does Batman _um_ \- get you off?"

He rolls his eyes.

"Catch up Quinzel, its not _Batman_ , it's the _fight_ he puts up."

"He repeatedly _brutalizes_ you- the condition you're in when he brings you in here? It's horrifying-"

" _Aw_ , Doc! You sound a little sore- I'm _touched_ , really." His eyebrows pinch together in distorted sympathy. "But there's no _need_. What he does to me is a _natural_ progression; it's a necessary release- for _both_ of us. You can't even _begin_ to understand the kind _tension_ that builds over the course of our little games. If there was no catharsis, we'd- _HA!_ Well, we'd _explode_." The way his face lights up would be hilarious if it didn't make my stomach twinge, and the reaction is so confusing that I shove it away entirely.

"So you consider the physical violence to be a byproduct of the interaction as a whole?"

"Yes, but that doesn't negate its _salience_." He chuckles. "Pain is a dimensional sensation, a complex, _layered_ flavour that physical pleasure alone can't hope to induce." He lets those words slide through the air and down my throat like sugar and medicine. Then he slams his fist against the tabletop and I squeak at the percussive clang, pins and needles overwhelming my skin. "There's the shock of it before the experience becomes conscious, the hot sting as afferent nerves fire into your spinal cord, and _finally_ , absolute, de _humanizing_ agony." I'm not breathing anymore. " It obliterates the creature inside, destroys all thought, it strips you, it _bares_ you." _Where did all the air go? "_ It frees you from the bondage of human skin, and _even_ when the pain is nearly gone, you get that same opiate rush- in terms of chemistry, orgasm and a knife to the gut are not that different. _Or_ gasm just doesn't have the same longevity, and it lacks that _explosive_ _opener_." His tone becomes effortlessly casual at the drop of a dime, like he didn't just deliver the most beautiful and debauched poetry I've ever heard. I blink and clear my throat. His grin turns crooked and cocky at my dizzied expression.

"Would you consider yourself a sado-masochist then?" It's a little quieter than I intend, like I've forgotten how to use my larynx.

"I would _consider_ myself much more creative than that term- " My patient huffs and rolls his eyes, dropping his chin into his palm. "Though the marquis _was_ rather enter _taining_ , he lacked vision. Why focus on such _libidinal_ sadism? Its just _so_ mundane." He groans, tipping his eyes up to the ceiling.

"I'm assuming your favourite month was February then." The half joke slips out through a wry smile, but it falls away the second I realize what I've revealed. He barks with laughter at my horror, fixing me with a look of delighted surprise and deviant gratification.

"Goodness _gracious_ , miss _Quinn_ \- I'm quite sure that _120 days of Sodom_ wasn't required reading." The pen is twirling again, passing back and forth between his hands, and his gaze is fervid.

 _Oops_.

"An understanding of libertinism was pertinent to my thesis." Kind of… _Hey_ \- I was _curious_!

He leans forward as his grin stretches, and one of his eyebrows pushes up. His white hands on his thighs glow against the orange canvas of his jumpsuit; angled bone and tendon making them look tensed though he's not flexing them.

"So its _my_ fault?" His voice is _indecent._ Forget calling maintenance- call the _fire department_ , I'm burning alive, _again_. Because of him, _again_ \- wait a second… Oh _god_.

A tingle runs distinctly south and I squirm. _Nope_. No. _Not cool_.

"Bradley, we're done here." I watch my hands as I go for my timer- this time I'm only 45 seconds early, and that fact restores _some_ of my dignity.

I pack my things to keep from looking at J, but when I note a distinct lack of motion from the guard in my periphery I have to look up. Bradley is still staring vacantly at the wall with his index fingers shoved into his ears. I wave at him, and the guard flinches out of his self-induced trance then moves stiffly to ready a giggling Joker for travel.

I huff, standing and turning to say good-bye to my patient like I'm not running away, but I freeze when I see the way he's _looking_ at me.

His eyes are dark as they travel up my legs and his grin slowly goes crooked. This is when I realize that I've left my lab coat undone, and that my skirt rode up on my thighs when I was sitting. I flush viciously, clutching my coat around me and whirling out the door and into the hall.

"Harleen!"

"Oh!" I jump back against the wall at the sound of Finch's voice and the door slams behind me. He steps forward, cornering me. Whether or not he intends it to be, the move is entirely _creepy_. He laughs and I smell his lunch. I try not to _gag_.

At the very least this unfortunate encounter is _definitely_ cooling my jets.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you; " He laughs, putting his hands in the pockets of his chinos. "I just wanted to check in after your meeting with Simon."

 _Like I'm a child?_ I hide my disgust behind a pleasant smile.

"It went very well, thank you for putting us in contact with each other. "

"You know I met Simon back in college?" _Good for you._ "Thomas Wayne as well- you know we used to blah blahblah, blah blah? You wouldn't believe the shenanigans! Blah, blahblahblah…"

The warden is tall enough to block my view of the door, but I can hear it opening behind him. There's an evil little snicker and a coppery head appears over finches shoulder, pushing out a pink tongue and crossing green apple eyes.

Just like that I feel _fluffy_ and _jittery_ , and my heart is beating like a war drum, and my smile is _so_ forceful it _hurts_ my face. I've forgotten the Warden entirely because all I can see is my patient sauntering away down the hall- the way his stilt legs bend and kick out to straighten with each step…the way his jumpsuit _strains_ in _certain places…._ Then he's looking over his shoulder and I can't breath, and he's _winking_ and I can't think-

Oh _dear, sweet baby Jesus-_ do I have a crush on the _Joker?_

 _No way_ , this is a classic case of misattribution of arousal- hahaha yeah, that _HAS_ to be it, right? I was scared, and I made a faulty appraisal of the physiological symptoms of that fear. I just need to sort it out and _everything will go back to normal._ This is a very common, well-established psychological process.

Not an _attraction_ of any kind- _not_ to a mass murderer. I'm _fine_.

"I'm sorry Dr. Finch-" I begin, knowing full well that I've interrupted him- but what does it matter? I wasn't doing a very good of pretending to listen anyways.

"Please, call me Thomas!" he interjects, raising one eyebrow like I'm playing hard to get or something.

" …Thomas," I comply if only to soften the blow. "I really don't have time for a chat right now, I have another session in an hour, and-"

"Say no more!" He pardons me, _finally_ taking a step back. "I'll just have to drop in on you at some point next week!" He says it like a joke and he's laughing, but it feels more like a threat. I try to swallow away the rancid grime that seems to be coating my tongue. "Say, how about I walk you back up to your office?"

Who the hell still says 'say' like _that?_ Unfortunately I can't think of a suitable excuse so I oblige him, doing my best not to loose my temper with his lazy pace or his obnoxious grandstanding.

I'm relieved when I make it back to the solitude of my office and bid the overbearing warden adieu, but then I'm all too alone with my thoughts. I spend my time cycling through not focusing on work, ardently trying to focus, and then being frustrated about how I can't focus.

It's not because I don't _want_ to, or because I'm tired, or in a bad mood. It's because there are… _things_ that keep popping into my head and hijacking it. I have _no_ idea what's going on because they're _horribly_ inappropriate, and frankly I am _appalled_ that I came up with some of them! What's worse is the way they make me _feel_ \- which is _also_ horribly inappropriate. I'm barely present at my next session, but I think I do a decent job of feigning attention- that's _horrible_ , I know. I'm being _horrible_ doctor.

Where the _hell_ is this coming from?

It can't be him- _no_ , no he's _only_ in the… _things_ because I saw him earlier, and we were talking about… _that,_ and _clearly_ I'm having some sort of hormonal surge, and that whole misattribution thing too- it's _definitely_ not him. I just need to go home and deal with this, and forget about it, and _everything will be fine._

My drive home is a blur- I _barely_ see the road though my eyes are open wide, my body moves on autopilot and my mind is back at Arkham in that therapy room. When I get home, I drop my bag at the door and wince at the thump of my carelessly unsecured laptop but ignore it to head for my room.

 _No time to tend to the wounded-_ _I'm on a_ _mission!_

With B.O.B fully charged, and armed with an overactive imagination, I throw myself into bed. First I try Heath Ledger- rebellious and sarcastic like in 10 things I hate about you, but I got nothin'. Next I go for Christian bale, but things take a turn for the Bateman, so I veer away to Brad Pitt in a suit like in Mr. and Mrs. Smith- this ones usually a sure shot, but its not quite enough so I throw in Angelina Jolie to sweeten the pot.

… … …Still nothing.

Thinking the issue might be proximity, I decide to try a Brad of the Clit variety and again I am disappointed. I follow him up with some British guy I used to sleep with in college but I don't even get a tingle. _Looks like its time to pull out the big guns._ I hang over the side of my bed on my stomach, and peek under like I'm afraid I'll be caught. Furtively, I pull out my little box of shame. What, you ask is in said illicit box?

I pull off the lid- a collection of _embarrassingly_ well-loved Harlequin romance novels. That's what.

I know- the totally badass (shh, just let me have this), no-nonsense, doctor woman goes bananas for a muscle-bound Heathcliff in a billowy shirt? It's the worst kind of literary trash- the cheesiest most ridiculous, melodramatic drivel I could find, and I _love_ it. It's a disgusting habit, but I can't kick it.

I grab the first one- they're organized by preference, and I've marked off all the _steamy_ bits with sticky notes…little _purple_ sticky notes… _NO, no, no, Harleen, let's not go there._ I set back to work with my new arsenal, and I think it's _finally_ starting to work, and I am absolutely over _joyed._

Until I realize the male protagonist I'm imagining is _not_ the one from the story.

I throw the book aside in utter frustration and curl up on my side, pushing B.O.B away with disgust for his ineffectiveness.

This is going to be a _really_ long weekend.


	9. Chapter 9

**Authors Note:** Greetings my lovelies!

I regret to inform you that there isn't any Mr J in this chapter, mostly because Harley can't stop thinking about him! Our girl is in full denial about the feelings she discovered last session and is doing her best to get over them by getting under someone else, and we all know Puddin' doesn't like other people touching his stuff! Don't worry, thought he's got something delicious planned (you guys are going to LOVE chapter 10).

This chapter references Dirty Dancing fairly frequently- if you haven't seen it, I highly recommend watching it. I love this movie and I definitely think Harls' would be a sucker for it too. Also, the monologue that Harley does is from The Shining, another brilliant flick. I'm not sure why, but I got it into my head that Harley can do a killer Jack Torrance impression, mostly because I think it would be hilarious to hear that terrifying voice come out of her tiny body.

Finally, just incase you don't want to hunt down a dictionary:

\- a Chaquetilla is a traditional matadors jacket

\- Tavis Feste means twin Jester (yeah, Harley has a type)

I hope you guys enjoy this chapter, I promise you things will start to pick up pace soon! As always reviews are the best thing ever, and I need them to keep slugging- infinite thanks to all of the angels that have reviewed so far 3

Thats all for today, folks!

 **CHAPTER 9: Two Jacks in a Pack**

"Ash? I need to get laid."

 _Let me put this into context._

As predicted it was a _fucking long weekend_ -that is to say I feel like I've aged 70 years but my libido has regressed to that of a 15-year-old boy.

Rewind 4 days and we've got a marginally younger, and significantly less sexually frustrated me. I've just been denied my afternoon delight by the unforeseen hand of Satan himself, and _yeah_ , you could say I'm a little bit edgy. So what do I do? I go for a rooftop run, one that lasts until 6 am- but do I sleep when I get home? No, of course not! I'm actually not entirely sure _what_ I did on Saturday- its all a blur, but I _do_ know that I ended up redialling Selina until she picked up, and then pestering her into training with me that night. It was mostly her throwing me around again, but I do think I improved a bit- or maybe its just because I didn't feel a thing when she struck me. It wasn't that she wasn't hitting hard, it just didn't hurt- at least not in a way that kept me down, if anything it woke me up. And I didn't really like that thought, but I didn't remember it after she clapped her hands over my ears to stun me. I slept all Sunday. That's not an exaggeration; I woke up at 7pm and went back to sleep at 9, having felt the effects of two days without sleep acutely upon arriving home.

So that brings us to today. Monday. I have to see him again tomorrow, and I'm still getting warm _tinglies_ when I think about him. Suffice it to say that I have _not_ managed to "deal" with my problem, and it has grown significantly worse in the past 72 hours. So this is what it's come to:

"Ash? I need to get laid."

There's a melodramatically relieved sigh on the other end.

"Finally you've come to me, my dear, _sweet_ summer child. It is time to end this dry spell." She declares prophetically.

"Don't call it that! Its not a-"

"IT IS TIME TO LET THE RAINS POUR DOWN-" She howls like a shaman, drowning me out.

" _Ohmygod_."

"ON THE DESERT PLANES OF YOUR SUB-SAHARA."

"Are you _done?"_ I groan, dropping onto the couch.

"Yeah." She giggles. " But I'm still excited. You need to come over here, I'm dressing you."

"Ok, I'll be there in twenty." I hang up and sling on my coat, grabbing my bag and heading out the door.

I know, it's a school night- I shouldn't be going out, but I'm considering it professional development.  
 _How to not be an idiot because you have blue balls 101._ It has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?

At this point I couldn't give less of a fuck if I have work tomorrow, because either way I'll be _useless_ if I don't fix this.

When I get to Ash's place I take my time through the lobby. I swear it _smells_ better in here. From the high, vaulted ceiling set with skylights to the pristine white marble floors, this place is _luxury_. The lighting is soft and natural even at night, and the water that trickles down the rough stone accent wall plays a soothing tune. Honestly, you might think it was a spa.

I always get a thrill pressing the penthouse button in the elevator- I don't know why; I guess it's just that air of exclusivity. But it's _awesome_ , especially when the elevator opens and there's only one black door with a gold lions head knocker. I _always_ use the knocker.

I look down at the carpet between my boots and I wait for Ash to open up. It's a _beautiful_ emerald green. _Goddamnit._ I flick my eyes up to the ceiling and wonder what the hell is taking her so long.

After what feels like an eternity, I finally hear the lock clicking.

"It's about ti- _Oh my god_." I any thought of harassing her for dallying is gone and I can't seem to see anything below her hairline.

"It looks good right? My mom told me I look like a chia pet." I can hear Ash grinning at the insult, no doubt having already had a good laugh at Mrs. Chen's expense. I can practically imagine the poor woman's face- actually it probably looked a lot like mine does right now, albeit for _very_ different reasons.

"Earth to Harls Barkley-" Ash waves her hands around in front of my face. "Are you just gonna stand there gawking or are you going to come inside so you can start fawning over me?" She yanks me through the door, locking it behind her. Then she turns to give me her best beam, preening at the short spray of freshly coloured locks that frame her face.

"Ash… _wow!_ " That's all I can get out as I reach up to twirl a sprig around my index finger, but the sight of that vibrant hair against my skin reminds me why I'm here. Suddenly I feel _very_ red, and the world's most awkward giggle bursts from my mouth as I pull my hand back and shove it into my pocket. Ash gives me a look for my odd behaviour, but ultimately seems to chalk it up to nerves about this evening in general. So naturally, she gets a glass of wine in my hands as fast as she can. _Why_ am I acting like a freak you ask?  
Because Ashley's hair is green. She fucking dyed it green.

I _know_ , you couldn't write this shit.

I take a deep gulp of my wine and shuck my coat and shoes in the foyer before following her into her living room.

Once again, _skylights_. I love them so much that they nearly make the rest of the room irrelevant. Sometimes Ash and me have sleepovers out here, stretching out on the bearskin in front of her fireplace to look for constellations. Ash knows them all and she loves to tell their stories.

Two purposeful claps pull me back to the present.

"Put something on and meet me in the _boudoir!"_ Drawls my newly verdant friend as she spins around the corner and into her bedroom. I roll my eyes; trying ardently to ignore how little air my lungs are taking in as I stride over to the large monitor nestled artfully into a collection of books and plants on an industrial chrome desk. When the screen comes to life I momentarily forget my discomfort because I'm looking at the _Queen_.

Well, she was Queen when we were 14- _what the hell_ , who am I kidding? She will _always_ be Queen- I just forgot (how _dare_ I!).

"I haven't heard this in so long!" I screech, hammering at the play button.

" _RIGHT?_ " Yowls Ash in agreement as the first few notes of Britney's legendary and highly underrated 'Bombastic love' spills out of the penthouse's comprehensive sound system. It takes Ash all of two seconds to abandon her preparation and come dance with me. We giggle manically, careening around the living room and taking full advantage of the hardwood floors in our sock feet as we make sounds like angry cats trying to sing along. Ash grabs my hand and sends me into a spin, and _all_ I can see is a blur of green hair so I'm dizzy and out of breath when I come to a stop and the song ends.

I immediately cringe upon recognition of the next track that plays, and I sprint back to the computer to skip it. _Yeah,_ somehow I don't really feel like listening to _'you drive me crazy'_ \- I gasp in horror- _or 'Hit me baby, one more time'_ , andWOW _, definitely_ not _'I'm a slave 4 u'_ maybe Britney was a bad idea.

"Good _god_ woman, are you having a fit over there? Pick something, we got work to do!"

Suddenly none of these songs seem safe, and the longer I stare at the screen the more I risk Ash getting _questiony._ I can't explain _anything_ right now, so I hit shuffle in a blind panic. Guess what shuffle picks?

Crazy in love.

 _I know_. I never thought I would say this, but _fuck_ Beyoncé.

I give up all hope of finding an appropriate song, following Ash into her bedroom instead so she can distract me with a game of dress up. She pulls me into her walk in, which is significantly larger and better stocked than mine. She's plastered the walls in light brocade wallpaper, rows of lights illuminating her numerous accoutrements. She pushes me up to her massive three-way mirror and I instinctively cringe away as she rolls her eyes behind me. I have deep purple rings under my eyes, and my pale hair, which is quite shiny at the best of times, is now lank and mousy.

Ash does shark-like circles, sizing me up. I get the feeling she's just catalogued every excess hair on my upper lip. She rubs her chin.

"What kind of underwear are you wearing?"

I flush.

"I _dunno_ Ash- just like, underwear, _normal_ underwear!"

She gives me an incredulous look, and hooks her thumbs into my leggings, yanking them down to my knees before I can even lift a finger to stop her.

So here I am, standing in front of her and turning fluorescent red at the glittery pink letters that spell 'Monday' across my ass.

" _Jesus_ Christ…" She murmurs. "I don't even- you've had these since _high school!_ " She honestly sounds worried.

I'll never admit it, but I've actually had them since junior high- _what_? I haven't grown much since then!

It's not _that_ bad… Right?

"Seriously Harls, who exactly are you trying to attract with these?" She stares on in horror and snaps the rather tired waistband for effect. I groan, burying my face in my palms. " Should we just give you pigtails and overalls and drop you off outside a pedophiles anonymous meeting?"

"They're comfy ok?" I cross my arms in meagre self-defence. "And helpful! I mean it _is Monday_ " Ash laughs at me, removing my hands from their knot to check my nails.

"Don't worry baby," she coos in motherese, "Momma Ash is here to take care of you. And hey, at least you're not hiding _Gandalf_ down there, so I don't have to threaten you with molten wax!" I shudder at the thought and she grins. "Now lets get you all dolled up like a street walker." She quips, turning away to riffle through a drawer.

I look back at myself in my ancient panties with my pants around my ankles, and I am suddenly riddled with doubt about this _whole_ operation.

"Um, so what _is_ the plan exactly?"

Ash tosses me a black lace thong and a matching bra- in _my_ size, with the tags still on. I glare at her and she shrugs, going over to a rack of dresses.

"It's possible that I was sort of prepared for this night-" I roll my eyes at her extravagance but she waves a hand dismissively at me. "Back to the plan- this is _ab_ solute _fate_ , darling, because _I_ have a cast party tonight."

Oh _god_ \- I remember cast parties. When you've got a group of sexually charged artists in a small room with music and alcohol, it's not hard to predict that things are going to get _weird_.

Ash catches the look of horror spreading across my face.

"Did I mention it's for Dirty Dancing…?" She leaves the statement in the air like a trail of candy, and I can't help but follow it. You guessed it, another weakness of mine- but _come on_ , its Patrick Swayze! Anyone who plays Johnny _has_ to be hot.

"So…what do we do when we get there?" I try to hide my excitement so she doesn't boast as I put on the stupidly expensive and absolutely _exquisite_ lingerie she bought me.

"First we make a round to show off your wares and give you a chance to _peruse_ the _merchandise_." She wiggles her green lined brows at me and hands me a pomegranate red dress. I give a little gasp when I hold up the brilliant satin garment- it's got a deep v neckline, but it some how manages to keep my admittedly not overwhelming ta-ta's in check when I slip it on. The rest of it hugs my body down to mid thigh, where there's a cheeky little slit on the side of one leg.

"Then, if you still haven't met your Mr. Lay, we position you strategically at the bar and I leave to watch from afar by pretending to interact with other, less interesting beings." Ash proclaims, handing me a well-tailored motorcycle jacket and a pair of stilettos. I take the jacket but I turn my nose up at the shoes and she sighs, switching them for another pair she had hidden behind her back. They're black boots that lace up to the ankle- still high, but _substantially_ thicker heeled, and I deem them acceptable.

After a period of obligatory flattery-which happens to double as praise for Ashley- she drags me into the bathroom. She braids back the hair that falls around my face, and then coils the free strands into twin buns, using the braids to secure them. Then she paints my face in shadow and wine red, and when she steps back to let me admire her work someone _exciting_ looks back at me.

Maybe it's just the wine- I don't know, but I feel a lot more confident now. This is _totally_ going to work; I was silly to think that Ash's green hair was a bad omen. This is going to be great. I'm going to catch a man, and then I am going to have _sex_ with that man. And also he is not going to be anything like the Joker.

Not even a tad- in fact I'm going to pick someone totally serious, a short, humourless man. Ok, on second thought that might be going a bit too far, I do still need to be attracted to the guy. I will pick someone good, and it's going to be so awesome that I won't think about _him_ at all. Then I'm going to wake up tomorrow morning, kick them out, and go to work refreshed and ready to dominate- yeah, maybe that was a poor choice of words.

You get the point.

I'm so consumed by my rationalizing that I wouldn't have known that Ash had left my presence at all if she hadn't reappeared before me in a black leather dress and a lavender fur coat. After that I'm just doing my best to convince myself that lavender isn't purple while she gels her hair up into a pompadour and pokes little bits of metal through the holes that riddle her ears. It's not like he _owns_ the color purple- that's ridiculous. It just looks really, _re_ ally good on him, all that rich color to exaggerate his porcelain skin- _Harls_ \- and it practically makes his eyes glow- _HARLS_ , _this is not a productive train of thought!_

In attempt to stymie the internal dialogue, I switch to an external babble about anything that pops into my head and doesn't start with a J. At the very least it doesn't make Ash throttle me before we get to our destination, so I'll take it as a win. Turns out that the party is being held in the bar below the theater. It's actually a converted rehearsal space, reworked after the prohibition act was repealed in the early 30's. This place is a historical building- an institution that's stood since the naissance of the city itself, a breathtaking piece of gothic architecture built to embody the drama that one would experience inside.

Inside, your feet sink into plush red and gold baroque carpets, and thick velvet curtains in a rich burgundy warm the stone walls from floor to distant ceiling. I love the chandeliers the most, they're like massive gilded mobiles dripping luminous ice, and I have _always_ wanted one. Not a little one either, I want one of these guys- not that I will ever have anywhere to put something like that, I just want to be _close_ to one.

I sigh; staring up into the crystalline light, and Ash grabs my arm to tug me down the stone steps leading to the bar below. It's a dark space, lit with soft tiffany fixtures. The room is all deep mahogany with Grecian designs carved out of the wood and inlaid with opalescent mother of pearl. We skirt the main area where tables and chairs have been put away to make a dance floor, and we head to the bar for drinks.

With a cosmo in hand I let Ash lead me through her throngs of admirers, greeting actors, musicians, and lighting designers by mildly insulting nicknames. She introduces me like some foreign dignitary, and I realize with a blush that yes, I am certainly getting attention here. So I try a few on for size-

not like _that,_ get your head out of the gutter you sleaze-ball.

I talk to a pianist who wears a grave expression and laughs shyly at my jokes. I manage to stay for five minutes because he's nice, but I'm still relieved when Ash catches my boredom and whisks me away. Next I chat up a chorus member with dark brown eyes and arms so thick I don't really know what he's saying. I follow him up with a set designer who has colourful sailor-style tattoos peeking up over the neck of his shirt and a thick Irish accent. He's probably the most interesting person I've talked to so far because it turns out he makes rube-Goldberg machines, but when we exhaust the topic I find I have nothing left to say and I send Ash a discouraged look, relegating myself to a bar seat and a fresh drink.

I'm sipping my sugary drink, watching my livelier friend chat up a drag queen in a hot pink sequin dress and a lime green feather Boa. All I want to do is join them but the longer I sit here alone the less time I have to pick up a sausage for dinner and the closer tomorrow comes. I'm really starting to panic when I notice someone sidling up to the bar beside me.

"Excuse me Miss, this party is cast and crew only." The voice is deep and the tone is accusatory, but when I turn I am met with teasing hazel eyes- not _green_ , Hazel. _There's a difference_.

His dark hair is glossy and duck-tailed. It's an unusually old fashioned style- not to mention high maintenance, but somehow with the vibrant red chaquetilla accentuating the breadth of his shoulders it doesn't look out of place. Where does one even find matador clothing? He doesn't really look Spanish. I raise an admittedly intrigued brow.

"What are _you_ then?" I lean in ever so slightly. "A waitress?"

He chuckles at the jab, turning his body toward me though I keep mine angled away. I note that the white t-shirt under his jacket stretches quite pleasantly across his chest, and that his dark pants cling rather nicely to his long legs. _Not bad._ He hooks his thumbs under the straps of his suspenders, and fixes me with the kind of goofy half grin he clearly knows is sure to ruffle a lady's feathers.

"Actually no, I'm an _escort_." He responds. It's completely deadpan, and my mouth pops open, lips too unsure to pull up into a smile.

"...Seriously?"

"Would that be a problem?" His brows arch and his lips straighten out but the expression has an air of mischief. An actor then.

"Of course not." I test a little smirk. "I'm sure those skills come in handy on the casting couch." His poker face falls away and he laughs- it's a good laugh. _Not bad at all._

"That's why I always use pretty woman for auditions- not to mention I look amazing in those vinyl boots. " I giggle, averting my eyes because he doesn't. He offers his hand, palm down like I'm supposed to kiss his ring. So I do, and note with satisfaction that he swallows quite deliberately in response.

"Feste," He makes a gun with his fingers when I release his hand and blows imaginary smoke off the top. "Tavis Feste- but you can call me sugar tits, _all_ my _clients_ do." He winks and I laugh like a trumpet at the nickname.

"Pleased to meet you sugar tits, I'm Harley."

"So Haarley," He rolls my name along his tongue and it sounds nice, but it doesn't sound like _his_ to say- which is ri _diculous_ , no one owns my name. "If not cast, crew, waitress, or escort, what _are_ you doing here?"

"I carried the watermelon." I giggle. His eyes go wide and his mouth forms a little 'O'.

"… _Baby?_ Is that you? Who put you in this corner _\- I thought I told them not to do that_ …" He plants his hands on his hips and looks around like he's searching for someone to reprimand.

"Maybe I put myself in the corner, maybe I _like_ it here." I turn up my nose, peeking coquettishly back at him out of the corner of my eye.

His gaze snaps back to mine with a wicked glint, and suddenly he's yanking me to my feet and I'm stumbling into his chest with a gasp.

" _No ya don't_." There's a familiarity to the growl that underlines his repartee, and the sound makes me shiver.

I look around for Ash before I'm lost in the crowd, and I find her staring straight at me, thrusting vigorously into the air. I blush hard, glad for the dim lighting because it only worsens when sugar tits puts his hands on my waist and pulls me close again.

I don't know the song but I can feel it in my limbs in that strange way you do when you're drunk, and I lose myself in the darkness,a the heat, and the resistance of his body. I'm doing a spin at the tips of his fingers, and I'm planning on taking a little samba step when something like a battering ram collides with my side. I swear I'm about to hit the ground when I find myself in Tavis's arms like he meant to dip me anyways. I look up in time to see him stick out his foot and send the drunken man who rammed into me sprawling. He sets me upright like nothing happened, and breaks into a funky chicken to make me laugh. I counter with a sprinkler and he replies with a thriller march, so I do a Carleton, and he does the Charleston, and somehow we both end up doing such an aggressive hand jive that I accidentally punch the woman behind me, spilling her drink, and we flee her wrath hand in hand.

I cackle as we run from the dance floor, darting out the back exit and into the alley behind the theater like she's going to chase us. I lean back against the brick wall, enjoying the reprieve from what I hadn't realized was a suffocating heat. I'm breathing hard, less from the run and more because Tavis has his hands pressed to the wall on either side of me. He's got maybe half a head on me, not as tall as- _Never mind_ , it doesn't matter.  
Tavis is tall. Tavis is _great_.

"Who did you play?" I bite my lip. _Please say Johnny, please say Johnny-_ Tavis narrows his eyes and purses his lips.

"You want me to do the move don't you?"

"Why _however_ did you know, _sugar tits_?" I bat my eyelashes as coyly as possible, and Tavis rolls his eyes, sighing.

"Women only want me for the move-" He grumbles "Thanks a _lot,_ Ryan Gosling."

I giggle.

"Pleeeeeaaaasse?" I whine, tugging at his fancifully embroidered jacket.

"Hmm…" He rubs his chin pensively. "Depends what _I_ get in return."

 _Two can play at that game, Mister Tits._

My chest pressed against his on tiptoe and a few whispered words have him skipping backwards down the alley to get into position. A mad beam breaks out on my face, and I take a ridiculous running stance.

 _"I've had, the time of my liiife…"_ croons Tavis.

" _And I never felt this way before!"_ I shriek, running towards him and leaping into his waiting hands. He pushes me easily into the air and I whoop, lifting my arms and legs as he spins me. Then suddenly I'm dropping out of the sky and I'm screaming until he catches me, roaring with laughter at the betrayed moue I turn on him.

" _Aw…"_ He set me down and tips my chin up with his index finger, then taps my lower lip, "No pouts, princess."

His eyebrows shoot up when I use my grip on his jacket to push him into the wall at his back, but when I kiss him he responds with vigor, his hands pulling at my hips when I bite his lip. He spins us around to press me into the brick as my hands go to his neck, and he kisses me harder. When we break apart, I flush to see the heat in his eyes, having quite forgotten how a good, old-fashioned make out feels. I put my lips to his ear.

 _"So…"_ I whisper, nipping at his earlobe so his fingers dig into my skin. "How much does a stud like you cost for a night?"

His head tips back with laughter and he pretends to consider it.

"Eh," He shrugs finally, eyes glinting in the sepia light of a nearby streetlamp. "For you, I'll do pro bono."

"More like pro- _boner_." I snort. Then I notice his raised eyebrow, recognizing his teasing insult and pushing him off. "Hey! I am _not_ a charity case, mister!" I slither out of his grasp and skip away, sticking out my tongue and making a rude noise to see his eyes darken.

" No, you most _certainly_ are no _t_." And just like that he's chasing me, and I'm squealing as I race, the smooth bottoms of my heels clattering against the concrete. He grabs me around the waist from behind and pulls me back to him,

"Hey now, missy- you haven't fulfilled _your_ end of the bargain."

" _Rats_ , foiled again!" I giggle, and he sets me down to face him.

"Pay up lady!" He flicks my nose and I roll my eyes, teetering from side to side.

"F _ine…"_ I'm momentarily distracted from our banter when I notice a man smoking a cigarette near the mouth of the alley over Tavis's shoulder. I catch him looking our way but he turns away quickly and I put it out of mind.

I clear my throat and scrunch up my face a few times, trying to wipe off my nerves.

"Ok, here we go:" I tilt my head, looking of sideways at him from under my arched brows. I widen my eyes and let my smile come through, tensing it to bare my teeth. "I'm not gonna _hurtcha' "_ I throw up my hand, and wave it a mockery of placation, taking a step forward. "Tavis, _darling!_ " I make the pet names hostile, quickly wagging a finger and then throwing my hand back up. "L- _ight_ of my L- _ife… I'm not gonna hurtcha-_ Ya didn't let me finish my _sentence."_ I let my voice stay mild while the violence ramps up in my eyes. "I _said_ , I'm _not_ gonna hurt ya," My grin stretches. "I'm just gonna bash your brains in!" I exclaim with vicious glee, both hands floating up into the air to extrapolate the point. "I'm gonna bash em' right the _fuck_ in-"

Tavis's eyes are bright and fervid, his breath catching against his lips when a bubble of deranged laughter bursts from mine. _S_ uddenly I do _not_ want to be anywhere public with Tavis, and I can't help sliding my fingers into his belt loops.

" _So what's it gonna be, sugar tits?_ You still want to come home with ol' _Jacky?_ " I growl, maintaining my Torrance demeanor though he's doubled over at this point and his laughter nearly drowns me out. I can't help a genuine grin when he flips his head back up and claps for me.

" _Only_ if you can keep that up the whole time." He quips straightening his face for effect. I giggle, grabbing his hand and leading him to the street, quite thankful for the proximity of my apartment. "Do you want me to really get into character?" I ask, "Because I don't have an axe, but I can get creative." _Whoa there, Harls-_

Thankfully he gives me a haughty smirk over the tip of his nose.

"You're pretty cocky for a _one trick pony_." He teases.

I'm about to hit him with my witty comeback when I feel his hand hit my ass. I turn completely red because it is _not_ at _all_ unpleasant, but I do my best to shoot him a glare. I find him doing an exaggerated whistle and a jaunty walk, like a cartoon character trying to act innocent.

Uttering a little cry of indignity, I aim my palm for revenge but he skips out of the way at the last second. So I try again- _several times_ , and eventually I descend into a moderate fury, leaping onto his back with a war cry. When he doesn't react at all I decide to stay there and point the way from his shoulders. On arrival, I disembark to key us through the main doors and then yank him into an elevator.

By the time the doors close we're sucking face like teenagers. Half way up I've got my legs around his waist so when the doors open we don't take our time getting into my apartment. He laughs at the fort-corpse in the middle of my living room, but when I start taking clothes off he gets to work and tackles me to my bed.

Everything is going great, he's funny, he's hot, he's doing everything right… and I'm just not _there._ So I get a bit more aggressive, and he's definitely into it so I try to focus on that- and then he pulls my hair and suddenly _I'm_ getting a lot more _into_ it. But then we shift into a beam of light and suddenly I'm not seeing Tavis on top of me.

The grin on his face is much more sinister, wider and full of candied violence. It takes more than a second I realize its just my lipstick smeared on his cheeks, but the damage has been done.

What? I just _happened_ to pick a funny guy with weird sense of style? This is getting fucking ridiculous- that one stupid little thought revved me up more than anything Tavis has done so far, and that makes me _sick.  
_ What the fuck is _wrong_ with me?

He looks completely confused when I brace my hands against his shoulders and I can't _bear_ to look him in the eye for what I'm about to do.

"I think you should go."

Tavis looks down, his brow severely creased.

"Um-"He clears his throat. "I'm still inside you?"

I cringe, and nod.

" _Yeah_ , I know, I'm _really_ sorry, but…yeahIstillthinkyoushouldprobablygo."

"…Okay- Uh I'm sorry-"

"No- _please_ , Its not you at all, you're so awesome, and funny, and also _really_ _sexy_ \- I'm just… not over someone."

 _Someone I've never been with in the first place._

The air in this room is so filled with _awkward_ that I can barely breathe as he nods and stiffly slides off the bed. I stare at the ceiling while his puts on his clothes, trying not to think about what just happened, or why it happened, or how much I liked seeing _Him_ above me like _that._

I hear Tavis's footstep head to my bedroom door, but they stop.

"Hey.., Harley?" I look up at him, clutching my bed sheet over my naked body with sudden modesty. "You know how to find me if you ever decide you want to try for round 2." I smile because it's _sweet_ ; _he's_ sweet, and my heart aches because I know _exactly_ who I want in my bed right now.

"Thanks Tavis, I might take you up on that." It feels like a lie when I say it, even thought I don't want it to, and then he's gone, and I'm alone, and all can think about is how _stupid_ I am for all of this.

I, Dr. Harleen Quinzel, want to fondle the Jokers funny bone. I want to taste the giggle pickle. I'm a full on, certified jester molester, and _NO_. I am _not_ laughing.

 _He_ is a sadistic, psychopathic, mass-murdering clown, and as if that weren't enough he could _never_ possibly return my interest. He pretty much said so last time we spoke- he's only interested in the games he can play with people, not the people themselves. The only person he even _mentioned_ was batman!

I curl in on myself; hugging my pillow tight like it might fly away. I realize with a wrench in my stomach and my insides clawing themselves out that I want to turn to him- at least in some small way. I want to hear his voice, to hear him say _Harlequin_ like he has property rights, and whisper _cupcake_ like I'm an absolute treat. I want to imagine the way his scarred mouth moves when he speaks, and how it might feel on mine. But most of all I want to imagine his eyes and all the different ways they can light up.

The first ragged sobs escape me, because I realize I have been doing _exactly_ that this entire time. It doesn't take long to descend into a fit of full on crying, and I keep it up until I pass out from the sheer emotional and physical exhaustion.

The shrill peal of my phone ringer shreds through a REM cycle and I wake with a start, grabbing it to check the I.D. Seeing that the call is coming from Arkham, I answer immediately.

"Hello?" I growl accidentally, my throat still thick with tears and sleep.

"Dr. Quinzel?" A female voice rings out frantically on the other end.

I clear my throat.

"Speaking, unfortunately. This better be good it's-" I glance at the clock next to my bed. " _Jesus_ its _3 am_."

"I'm _sorry_ Doctor," Her voice is dry and harried. I can almost picture her rubbing at a tension headache, and despite my annoyance at the wake up call, I'm glad I don't work nights. "We _need_ you to come in." There's a crack in her voice at the word 'need', and my stomach turns to lead, dropping down to crush everything below it. A thousand frantic images pass through my brain.

"Is he ok?" I blurt then take a sharp inhale, like I might suck the words back if I try hard enough.

"-Who?"

"Never _mind_. Why am I awake right now?"

"Its patient J, he's-" _Oh god_. He's escaped. He's been shot. He's dead. The Batman has him. "-been banging his head against the wall for 3 hours now, he's just _screaming_ \- the other inmates are in a frenzy!"

"Have you sedated him?" I cry incredulously, tugging on yesterdays discarded jeans before stumbling out of bed. "He could be causing himself _serious_ brain damage-"

" _We tried!_ " She sounds close to tears now. "We can't give him any more without exceeding the lethal dose, so then we tried to get him to a solitary unit, but…" I nearly fall flat on my face, hoping around on one foot to tie my sneakers.

"But what?"

"Well, we've sent in five guards so far…We-we don't know if they're _alive_ or…" I can hear her shudder. _Shit._

"I'll come in, but I'm not sure what I'll be able to do that half the night shift hasn't." Thick self-doubt and an oppressive sense of uselessness make my statement deeply sardonic, but I'm pulling on my jacket and grabbing my keys anyways. There's an uncomfortable pause on the other end of the line.

" _Well_ …He's _asking_ for you, Doctor- at least we _think_ that's what he's saying."


	10. Chapter 10

**Authors note:** Hello my pretties! I'd like to say I'm sorry for the cliffhanger last week but I'm really not- not even a little. Yeah I might be a bit of a sadist and its possible that your anguished cries keep me warm at night (especially you _amybawesome, PandaPuppet, 423bluerose423_ , _RoyalFlushGang_ , and _lala3366_ ).Fair warning the cliffhangers are going to continue and they might even get worse... sorry (not sorry). That said, this chapter is full of candy for you all- RoyalFlushGang, I hope this satisfies your need for a little release of tension.

Also, just to let you all know, school starts up again soon for me and I'm on the fourth year of my program, which means honours thesis soon, so I'm not going to be able to write as quickly as I have been this summer. I 100% do intend to keep writing though, this baby is far from over so don't worry, I'm not abandoning you. Writing this fic keeps me (relatively) sane when my live becomes consumed with research proposals and exams.

I believe thats all for now so read on and let me know what you think!

all the love, SewerAngel

p.s: The song in this chapter is called The Snake, by Al Wilson. J was singing it on his way to a session a few chapters ago and I feel like its a song he would definitely dig- go check it out!

 **Chapter 10: Take my breath away, or some cheesy shit like that**

" _Well_ …He's _asking_ for you, Doctor- at least we _think_ that's what he's saying."

 _Oh._ Suddenly, I feel _warm_ and _buoyant_ and light as a feather, because he _wants_ me, and I can't wait to get to him.

"I'll be there as soon as I can." I hang up, already on my way down to the parking garage, belatedly checking my face in the car mirror. Finding that last nights artful makeup has been transformed into a bunch of garish smears, I try to scrub the worst of it off. When I'm done, I still look a little worse for wear but I decide that time is of the essence, so I head for the highway. Still when I pass a Qwik-mart I pull in, struck with what at the moment seems like a brilliant idea. I don't waste time though, zipping off with my purchase and an awful cup of coffee.

My mind is running a million miles an hour, and as I drive the drizzle mounts into a pounding rain and wrestles with my windshield wipers. If he's experiencing a manic or psychotic episode and they keep sending people into his cell with Tasers and needles… god he could be _absolutely_ terrified. I laugh and the sound is unnatural and tremulous. The idea is almost ridiculous, _him, scared?_

I'm being silly.

I cast my gaze up to the trees lining Arkham road. They look so _beautiful_ on a sunny day, casting soft, dappled light… tonight they are skeletal, whipping wild in the wind. Watching them disappear in the rear-view mirror, I get the feeling that they're closing in behind me and no matter how high I turn up the heat I can't seem to shake the chill that sets into my bones. When I exit the car in the parking lot, Arkham Manor looms, imposing like never before.

Though I sprint for the wide stone steps to escape the rain, I'm soaked by the time I make it to the heavy double doors. I try unsuccessfully to dry off a bit in the entryway, but I have to settle with wringing out my hair and giving my melting face another good wipe down. Only now that I've arrived- without _any_ means of making myself presentable, do I realize that I'm going to have to talk to the guy I like looking like a drowned rat. I know, he's having a breakdown, he probably won't be focused on- _ohmygod I'm being so selfish,_ every second I _waste_ here _ruminating_ is another chance for what _ever_ is happening to get _worse_!

I make a breakneck pace down to the high security ward and head for the D- wing, shaking my hair out as I go and leaving it down to let it dry. The moment my elevator passes below the first level, I can hear it. A roaring cacophony of wretched shrieks, and one howl I do recognize. Somehow it pierces through the rest. The sound amplifies when the elevator doors open and I'm bursting through them, worry pulling me to him like fishhooks through my limbs. I barrel through the security checkpoint, barely waiting to be let through before shoving open the heavy door. I storming down the cellblock towards the knot of panicked people crowding around his cell, and steel myself for what I'm about to find.

"Have you contacted Finch?" I shout over the racket, ripping off my wet coat and getting tangled in the clingy sleeves. My eyes dart frantically between the nurse and the man destroying his face one smack at a time.

 _No answer!_ Mouths the nurse with a jerky, shell-shocked shrug.

"Leland?" I cry desperately. If none of my superiors are available, this coked-up pit-bull of a situation is all in my hands.

She shakes her head no, and my trachea contracts. _Shit._ I give myself a little slap on the cheek and despite all she must have seen tonight, the nurse _still_ looks a bit taken aback.

 _Ok. Game-time_ So, we've got 6 guards down, one killer clown having a fit, and about 20 other patients who have worked themselves into various categories of breakdown as a result of _his_ caterwauling. His screams are rough and wet now, painful as they batter his larynx on the shredded path from his lungs. The longer he keeps this up, the more people we have to put out- its not like we have an un _limited_ supply of lorazpam- _or_ guards for that matter.

Not to mention I'm _jumping_ every time his head connects with the wall- forget the _drugs_ , I'm shocked he hasn't lost consciousness as a result of the physical trauma alone.

"I'm going in." My voice is firm, like my body has made the call before my brain approves, and I'm walking to the entrance to his cell. I turn expectantly to one of the guards, who balks. No one does _anything_ but shift awkwardly and look at me like I've suggested we order him an escort and a bottle of Patron.

"But you-" Starts the nurse, wringing her hands as if she's going to hang them up to dry.

"What choice do we have?" I snap. " You're going to have to sedate _me_ if he keeps going like this."

She purses her lips, glancing at the surrounding guards for confirmation even though _I'm_ her superior, even though she _clearly_ wants to give up the reigns. I do my best to soften my expression, though my patience is about as thick as a single sheet of cellophane.

"I take full responsibility for whatever happens in there." _I wish I didn't have to._ "This isn't going to come down on you." The flimsy assurance is apparently all she needs, because just like that her shoulders droop ever so slightly with charred relief and she nods. _Figures._

The guard nearest the door steps aside and swipes his card to let me through, regarding me with a mixture of fear and reverence. I almost wink at the kid.

But then there is nothing but air and a few bodies between my patient and I.

 _He's_ turned away from the wall and he faces me with frantic eyes and a heaving chest. Blood runs down his forehead to matt his hair and stain his teeth, and his jumpsuit clings to his skin with the sticky mixture. I don't even notice that he's stopped screaming.

I take cautious steps into his cell, feeling like there is a layer of oil keeping my feet from ever really touching the ground. Fear and zealous anticipation drowns my synapses as I pick my way over the sprawled limbs and torsos in my path. I'm unable to really take them in, and not paying enough attention to register whether or not they're still breathing. I stop with a foot of empty space separating our toes.

When I take a deep breath to steady myself, I swear I hear a low chuckle. I must be mistaken because when force my gaze up I find his whole body quaking, ropey muscle threatening to fracture bone. His face is whiter than I've _ever_ seen it, eyes massive and rimmed in red, teeth clamped tight to pop the tendons in his jaw and nostrils flared to crinkle the bridge of his nose. The intensity of the emotion in that expression, the _hysteria_ that continues to roar from his now sealed lips is enough to paralyze me entirely. But he does not move to attack me; he doesn't scream or turn back to the wall.

All he does is shake and stare _straight_ into my soul.

So I reach out slowly, palms up to show that I'm not concealing anything, and I take his hand. He monitors the motion with manic vigilance, and though I feel a jolt run across his skin when my fingers make contact, he does not pull away. He's so _cold…_

I feel my forehead pinch and I wrap both of my hands impulsively around one of his. It is solid and smooth and immense between mine and I'm struck by how, as hard as I try, I can't hide his skin with my own.

"I had a bad dream." His voice is so tight that I feel the strain in my own chest and his eyes make about 20 frenzied saccades. They only return to me for a fraction of a second, but it's long enough to find the acetic paranoia that wracks him with tremors. A hard ball swells in my chest.

" _They're everywhere_ -" He mutters, blinking like he wants to break his eyelids. I feel my heart lurch, and squeeze his hand with what I hope is reassuring pressure.

"Who?" I make my voice as soft as I can.

His fingers become a claw around mine, his head shaking no, although I'm not sure to what. He bares his teeth like he's trying to smile but his brow furrows when he realizes it doesn't look right.

"- _I'll_ get myself _first_ " He laughs and the sound of it is so weak and restrained that I want to cry. He scrutinizes my face like he expects it to change drastically if he looks away. I take in the ragged little punctures that pepper his neck where they shot him up. A triple dose, and he's _still_ standing- that shouldn't be possible, wouldn't be possible-not for anyone else.

Him like _this…_ it's _wrong_. To keep my lip from wobbling, I open my mouth and say the first thing that comes to mind.

"What's worse than two babies in a dumpster?" I don't wait for him to ask, I don't even wait for approval because I just need to see him smile. I need to tell myself he hasn't broken, not yet. "One baby in two dumpsters."

There's a weighted beat, and then slowly his dimples appear and a cautious smile tests itself on his lips. I want to squeal, jump, and pinch his scarred cheeks. Instead I beam, showing so much tooth that I nearly blind myself. For once his eyebrows are not angled in arch deviance. They are simple curves, tilting upwards. The innocence is shocking.

"Do you trust me doc?" His voice is little more than a rasp.

The simple answer- No. How _could_ I? I know _exactly_ who he is; I know what he's done, the evidence is _all_ over the floor in this tiny cinderblock cage. But this isn't his usual jeering rhetoric, he is _pleading_ with me.

"Not really." I admit, but the admonishment is quiet and weak.

"Tell them to leave." His pupils are dilated to an unnatural size, little portals eating up the green to leave him in black and white. Even the natural copper of his hair seems faded. Beaten and tired.

The most terrifying thing is that I _want_ to. I want to make the Nurse and all the guards walk away, and then I want to wrap my arms around him and squeeze him so tight that he forgets the monsters. I want to hold him and stroke his thick, curly hair until he falls asleep. But I can't do that- _oh no_ I certainly cannot. I am his _doctor_.

His eyes jump between our audience and me. I can tell _they_ 're setting him on edge. So really, I _have_ to make them go. Right? My patient is my first priority. I give him a little smile and turn to step back out into the hallway. He releases my hand quite reluctantly, and warmth spreads inside me. I wave the nurse over and she hustles, never lifting her gaze from the man behind me.

"My patient is in an extremely fragile state, and having _spectators_ isn't helping him to calmdown, I'd like you to-"

"He's never really had a problem with an audience before."The nurse scoffs, apparently emboldened by her fatigue.

My hand darts out to grab the neck of her pale blue scrubs before I realize how aggressive the action is. Still, I don't let go.

" _He_ is an extremely sick man and if you don't want any more bodies on your hands, you should do what I say- _do you understand me?"_ She nods, the whites of her eyes stretching. I let go of her scrubs.

"Good. Now he _will_ keep screaming and causing 'workplace injuries' if I leave, so how about you take the guards and go for a _nice little walk_ down the hall- you don't even have to leave the block!" I know my patronizing tone is a bit much, but I can't stand this contrived beaurocracy.

"Fine." Barks the nurse, throwing up her hands. She spins on her heel and crooks a finger at the guards, who follow dumbly. I close my eyes and try to take a steady inhale through my nose before turning back to my patient.

He's smiling now- if only by a half, and the sight speeds my passage back over the mishmash of unconscious men. I slow when he bends at the knees, never breaking his stare. I freeze completely when he picks up a fallen Taser and returns to full height. He laughs at my hesitation, low and obliging.

"Don't _worry_ cupcake, if I wanted to put you down I'd have the decency to do it by hand."

It's not _quite_ reassurance, but it's enough.

My head tilts further and further back as he comes closer, and I fight to keep my body from tensing too obviously. He stops when our toes touch and he reaches for my hand- slowly, cautiously, as I did for his. When I let him take it, he presses the Taser into my palm and wraps each of my fingers around the handle with an arresting tenderness. Encasing my hands in his, he lifts them to his throat and pushes the butt of the cartridge into the soft spot between his Adam's apple and his clavicle. I immediately try to pull away, but he holds me in place, and the wall at my back prevents further flight. I open my mouth to protest, but he puts a hand over it and shushes me rather benevolently.

I realize I've never been _this_ close to him before, and when he leans in even closer, I forget about blinking because for a few seconds all I can see is how _green_ his eyes are. He removes his hand and I feel his breath on my lips, and I honestly think he's about to _kiss_ me.

And then I feel his other hand wrap around my neck.

His grip is light at first, just enough to depress my carotid. I can still breathe but the stymied blood flow has the pressure building in my ears and skull. I get it now.

This is the Joker's trust-fall.

So when he squeezes harder, and my trachea starts to compress I don't use my last bit of air to scream and I don't discharge my weapon. I let him take my breath away. _Ha_. Get it? My world gets smaller and darker the more my head pounds and his eyes get brighter and brighter until they are the _only_ thing in my field of view. I'm drowning and _soaring_ , my limbs are full of helium and pins and I feel like my mind is tipping upside down and emptying out. My taxes and my mother and my student loans are _gone_ , flushed away entirely under the warm, all encompassing darkness of asphyxia.

The only thing that keeping me from floating away or melting entirely is the feeling of his fingers digging into my flesh. My lungs burn and thrash against my ribcage, and I claw at the collar of his jumpsuit as my chest heaves silently and my body I still don't fire the Taser.

And then he's chuckling- a sated and confidential sound, slowly releasing his grip.

The first gulp of air that slips down my throat scorches my bruising insides, the world comes rushing back and I swoon, head spinning like a top, like a tilt-o-whirl. His hands go to my waist and keep me from falling. I'm gasping, _reeling_ , staring up at him like he's the _sun_ , and- This is _so_ inappropriate! My hands drop to my sides, Taser falling to the floor, and my mouth pops open though I have _no_ idea what to say. My mind goes blank when he smiles wide and then takes my chin to tilt my face up.

"There," He brushes a frazzled bit of damp hair out of my eyes. " Now _I_ trust _you_."

I flush. I swallow. I try to look away.

"Do you- _um_ -we can talk about your dream if you-" I stammer.

" Actually, I feel _much_ better now." He takes a pensive inhale and gives me a knowing grin. "How are _you_ feeling Doc?" He chuckles.

I don't know. _I feel great._ I have no idea. _I'm terrified_.

"Trustworthy"

His giggle turns into a full-bodied laugh, he's leaning back, gripping his stomach, and though it aches I can't help but join in.

"Dr Quinzel?" One of the guards.

" _I'm alright!"_ I bark. The roughness of my voice is a sharp reminder of what just happened.

The Joker raises an eyebrow.

"They're going to want to restrain you again?" unfortunately it comes out as a question instead of the statement I had intended. His hands are still on my waist. _Is this on camera?_

"I'll be a good boy, I _pro_ mise- _what?_ " He shrugs incredulously at my blatant disbelief. "You have a _soothing_ presence Quinzel." His eyes drift down to my neck and he smirks. "We don't want anyone getting _jealous_ of your new necklace though, _do_ we?" He plucks the tab of my zipper from its position between my breasts and zips my sweater up to my chin. The action is so _infuriatingly_ nonchalant that to remark on it would be akin to admitting the decidedly unprofessional turn my thoughts are taking, so I clamp down on my flustered shiver.

" _Ok_. _Well_. Please don't kill anyone else tonight- _Ok_?" I stammer, taking his hands and removing them from my body, but when I try to pull away he holds on and his lips zipper into a thin, uncertain line.

I _immediately_ hate myself for taking his smile away, and suddenly, instinctively, my palms press against the corners of his jaw and my fingers brush hesitantly along the ridges of his scars. He sucks in a sharp breath and doesn't let it go, and I'm wondering if I've just changed his mind about keeping me alive.

 _Stupid._ Those are obviously a source of trauma _\- you know that Harleen, and yet here you are,_ pawing _at them literally minutes after you won what little trust he has left._

"-I'm sorry!" My mouth moves without consulting me, but even as I feel ridiculous for saying it, I know that I mean it. I try to pull my hands away as fast as I can, but he's faster, snatching my wrists to keep them in place.

 _Oh_.

My own breath hitches now and I don't _dare_ look up though I'm not sure what I'm afraid to find. So I focus on the battered skin at my finger tips. Shiny lumps and gouges, x'd-out divots where terrible stitches ruched the healing skin. Terrible stitches…or careless ones. Carless stitches done from an inopportune angle with inadequate supplies and inconsistent aftercare.

I wonder how long it took- given that he had to push the needle through his _own_ flesh. I wonder how hard it was to make them even with all the blood loss clouding his senses. I wonder if it was before or _after_ …I wonder if he cared how it made people see him- or rather not see him. How they look anywhere but his face until they catch sight of the wounds, and then they can't look away- like a car crash, like a _freak_ show. Maybe he doesn't care. Maybe he doesn't even notice after all these years, but I'm jolted by the realization that _I_ do.

The scars don't ruin his face, they aren't a _deterrent_ , and they do _not_ disfigure him. They are as much a part of him as his sharp nose and his wild eyes; they are an immortal smile- a _goddamn emblem_ , and in the heat and fury of this thought, I find the strength to look him in the eyes. I want him to _know_. I find them wide and cautious. His stare feels like it could trepanate me but I expect it, so I'm ready to smile at him. I run my thumbs across the length of rumpled tissue to wipe away the congealing blood, and his head tilts slowly to the side, his gaze turns from a thinly veiled warning to a microscope lens. Then he blinks and his hand comes up tentatively to stroke my hair.

Its _so_ unexpected, much more so than the strangulation, and that's all it takes to forget my surroundings and my _self_. I close my eyes and sigh, nearly sagging against him once more. _I know. I'm the worst doctor ever._ I don't care? I don't know.

I don't want him to _stop_ …

"It's ok cupcake _, I forgive you._ " He says finally. There's laughter in his voice, and when I open my eyes his face is fixed again, back to normal.

I stare at him for a moment, void of any thought but the way this moment _feels,_ and how much it _shouldn't_ feel that way. He looks expectantly back.

"Should…Do you want me to call them back?" I ask, though I don't really want to. His jaw tenses but he nods warily and lets go of my wrists, turning away his acid eyes. I'm not going to lie I feel the loss. Then I remember what I picked up on the way.

"Oooh! Wait! " I cry, then drop the volume, remembering the guards down the hall. "I brought you something." I explain.

He watches me with equal parts amusement and scepticism as I dart to the door of his cell, and peek out to check if our chaperones are looking. When I find them sufficiently distracted, I reach out to snatch my hastily discarded bag and rummage around for his gift. I scamper back once I find it, trying to suppress my grin just a _bit_ because it's em _barrassingly_ emphatic, but I fail entirely when I see his eyes light up as I offer him the package of chocolate pudding cups.

"For _me?"_ He squeals, tearing open the cardboard and ripping the top of the first cup. The look of zealous anticipation on his face is absolutely awe-inspiring, because it's about _pudding_. And he's the _Joker._

Ha! Pudding for my puddin'- he'd kill me if I ever called him that.

He tips his head back, and cleans out the cup _with his tongue_ \- he's _very_ thorough, and um- _Yeah_. I _might_ be losing my cool a little bit. I swallow hard when he passes back the empty cup and goes for another. And then another, and another- you get the gist- he literally finishes all six cups in the space of 3 minutes. When he's done he rubs his stomach contentedly and looks down at me with my armful of cardboard and plastic. I shove the trash hastily into my bag, feeling not quite able to break eye contact of my own volition.

"Thanks, Doc. You're the best kinda' gal a guy like _me_ could hope for." The way he says it sounds like an apology, and my heart shatters yet again. On impulse I take back a hand, _just_ one, and I squeeze it hard. His smile comes up crooked, and it makes me feel like my _whole_ body is made of butterflies and glitter, so I hold on until they have him strapped down again. His eyes don't leave my face for a second.

Of course, when _they_ see the fingers I've got wrapped around his, they look at me like they're considering locking me in here with him. Come to think of it I _wouldn't_ mind _-_ Nuh-uh. _Don't go there Harleen, not right now, you need to think._

I'm at work. Not a brothel. I am sitting on a cot next to a restrained, bloodied psychopath.

I'm holding his hand and singing lullabies at his request, waiting for his lids to grow heavy though they continue to flutter like moths under lamplight. Eventually they do weigh shut but his smile remains, and his lips keep moving as he personalizes the lyrics- Mary's little lamb has been shot dead, and she takes it to school between two pieces of bread. Poor Jack wasn't _quite_ as successful at jumping that candlestick as reported, and, _well_ , little Bo-peep is a _real_ sick puppy.

I giggle drunkenly with infatuation and fatigue at his childish slurs, and my accent brings more and more color to the songs. By the time his lips go slack and he runs out of requests I'm about to fall asleep myself. It isn't exp _licitly_ stated in the guidebook, but I'm quite sure that passing out in a patient's bed is a No-No. With that thought, I am once again _acutely_ aware of the cameras.

 _Fuck._

Icy fingers clutch at my stomach and suddenly I'm not tired at all anymore- I need to _do_ something about those security tapes. Not wanting to wake him, I wait a few minutes before extricating my hand and I have to resist the urge to kiss his head on my way out of his cell.

The two remaining guards that stand outside his cell won't look at me and it strengthens that frigid grip growing inside. I'm 12 all over again and my moms found my serial-killer letters and I'm in _so_ much trouble- except maybe I'm _not_ ….maybe I can whiteout the return address.

Actually I _have_ to, or I might loose my job- no I'll _definitely_ loose my job.

With that fear wiping over my mind like a dirty rag, I turn away from the cell and I don't look back. The cinder walls that circle the exit ahead of me feel oddly void without his laughter, his muttering, his noise, the walk feels too long. So when I hear a low snicker, I _almost_ feel better. That is, I do until my head snaps to the left and I find myself looking into the reptilian eyes of Victor Zsasz.

His mouth curves, it crinkles up in the right way to show his teeth, but above that his face is frozen and his eyes are cold mirrors. It's the definition of a false smile, enough to set any shrink on edge, but the _sound_ is what forces my feet into a harried march- it's shallow, _flat_. Nothing more than air shoved out between sharp teeth. The sound is like a concrete slab, no give, no emotion, nothing. Victor Zsasz is an empty _snakeskin_.

In this moment, with apprehension and uncertainty crawling down my back, I crave the _real_ laughter. I don't care what emotion it expresses, just as long as it comes from _him_. I prefer my snakeskins _filled_ , thank you very much Vic _tor_ \- you can shove your laughter where the sun don't shine. And what the hell is _he_ laughing at _anyways?_

 _It doesn't matter, Harleen, you have more important things to focus on._

I do a mad dash to the block's surveillance station outside, fishing a spare USB out of my bag. I knock on the glass and the guard looks up from his comic book. He takes his time to stand and walk over to the door, but at least I know he wasn't watching…whatever _that_ was.

"Hi! I'm Dr. Quinzel," I flash him my ID card. He steps aside, opening the door and I walk into the booth. "I need to copy some of the footage?" I hold up my USB but he's already got his nose back in his book.

" _Sure_ , go ahead." He waves me off, leaning against the wall.

I take a seat at his desk and plug into the file system, but my actions are clumsy with anxiety and it takes too long to locate the footage from the past hour. I copy it onto my drive, and then delete it from the mainframe. I'm going to have to edit it tonight and replace after the shift change at seven. I'll just have to pray that they don't look too closely.

 _Lovely_. So I guess I'll just forgo the sleeping. Sleep is for the weak, right?

I leave the screen as I found it, thanking the oblivious guard before slipping away and making double-time to my office. My hands shake with a sudden burst of cortisol and caffeine as I start to edit the tape. I can still feel his hands around my throat, but I could _swear_ the girl being crushed against the wall wasn't me at all.

All of that was _so_ … sur _real_ that it doesn't seem to fit into the chronology of my life. Part of me _honestly_ expects to wake up soon, like this has been a fever dream- a product of having slept in an awkward position, but a few fingers pressing against the bruising flesh around my throat is enough to make it all concrete.

It takes me a little over an hour and a half to cut out all the incriminating footage and fill it in by looping collaged snippets of our more _innocent_ moments of discourse. Despite my _clearly_ impaired state, I think I do a decent job. I keep myself awake by blasting music through my headphones and playing consecutive games of bubble trouble until the shift change at 7 am. At a quarter after, I head down to the _same_ guard station and give the _same_ spiel to a _different_ guard, who thankfully is just as inattentive as the first. I replace the file without hassle, and I'm feeling significantly better on my way back to my office when Leland intercepts me in the hallway. She looks absolutely horrified.

"Harleen!" She grabs my shoulders. "I heard- _what_ happened?"

At first I think she's talking about the bruises until I realize I have them covered, and then I remember how my _face_ must look. I give a tired and unfortunately loopy little laugh, shaking my head.

"I just got caught in the rain, I've been here since 4-" I see the mounting panic on her as she prepares to riddle me with questions, and decide to spare myself the barrage. "Don't _worry_ , he didn't do anything- _to me."_ I add that bit in a rush as a second thought. "I mean, he put five guards in intensive care, but I'm fine."

She gives me an odd look and lets go of my arms.

"I think you need to take today off, sweetie." Terms of endearment? I _must_ look bad. "You did good work tonight, we can talk about it tomorrow."

I really don't want to _talk_ about it with _her-_ ev _er_ , but I appreciate the grace period.

"Thank you, I'm exhausted." I sigh, pasting a grateful expression on for her benefit. She pats my back as I pass her heading for my office.

When I exit the main building, the sun is just about to peer over the horizon, casting a strange violet light. It's not raining anymore, but I'm still chilled from earlier so I rush to my car and turn the heat on high as I drive away from the grounds. I flick on the radio, trying to escape the white buzz of my aged engine. The oldies station comes on half way through a dark and soulful number that I don't recognize, one with jangling guitar and a blasting trumpet. I'm about to scan to the next station when the lyrics finally permeate my consciousness, and my fingers freeze against the button.

" _Take me in, Oh tender woman,"_

I _know_ this song. I've heard it before, and now _His_ voice replaces the original.

" _Now she clutched him to her bosom, 'You're so beautiful,' she cried_ _  
_ _'But if I hadn't brought you In, by now you might have died'_ _  
_ _Now she stroked his pretty skin and then she kissed, and held him tight_ _  
_ _But instead of saying thanks, that snake gave her a vicious bite"_

My fingers are going dry and white, draining of blood with the strength of my grip on the wheel. _Oh god._ Oh god, oh god- am _I_ a tender woman?

" _I saved you," cried that woman_

' _And you've bit me even, why?_ _  
_ _You know your bite is poisonous and now I'm going to die' "_

" ' _Oh shut up, silly woman,' said the reptile with a grin_ _  
_ _'You knew damn well I was a snake before you took me in!"_

Have I forgotten about snakes? _No_. Only crazy people forget about snakes- and I don't mean mentally ill, I mean _crazy_. All _I_ did was take a professionally necessary risk. All I did was what _any_ other good doctor would have done. Right?  
Oh god. _You've_ really _lost it this time Harls._

"SHUT _UP_!" I punch the radio off, trying to ignore the fact that I'm yelling at myself. I'm _fine_.

If I _was_ a tender woman, I would be dead right now, wouldn't I? But I'm _not_ , I am totally, 100% _fine_. He could have ' _bitten_ ' me- but he _didn't_. I'm not naïve enough to think the Taser would have stopped him if he'd _really_ been in the mood. Instead he- well I'm not entirely sure _what_ he did but…it was _fun_ , wasn't it? It was _exciting_ \- and ok _fine_ , it was definitely _not_ what any good Doctor would have done; it was a retrospectively _horrible_ breach of conduct, not to mention an idiotic risk. _But it worked right?_

I don't know.

It doesn't _really_ matter though, because my mind keeps slipping back to how it felt to have his hands _on_ me- around my throat…on my waist, in my hair…That was _different_. I was never really into drugs, but I swear it felt like a mainline of heroin to be brought that close to the edge of… well I'm not _exactly_ sure.

And now I have _absolutely_ no idea what to think about his feelings toward me. I know what I _want_ \- the answer that makes my heart threaten to burst into cardiac confetti. And the way he _held_ me, how he wouldn't let go of my hand… An involuntary squeal escapes me and once it starts, it pulls a deluge of shrill giggles with it.

 _He's a psychopath,_ Iremind myself sternly, and the thought turns my butterflies to horseflies. By definition, he is incapable of legitimate connection with other people; he sees them as a means to an end- but isn't attraction selfish at its core? The neurological urge itself is a drive to reproduce, to propagate your _own_ genetic material, and at a more proximate level it's a drive to _feel_ good. Did I not just try to use Tavis for that very reason? Another person _is_ a means to an end- maybemost of us are just less blunt about it. Even love, monogamy- they're a pooling of resources, a way to escape loneliness, these actions, these _feelings_ aren't without gain. A partnership- romantic or otherwise is a _contract_. It must be mutually fulfilling in some way- if it weren't it wouldn't exist in the first place. That isn't to say all partnerships are _good_ , just that they _can't_ be 100% bad.

The only difference between the average Joe and the average Joker is that the latter is liable to use you for more threatening things than sex and a shared bank account.

When I trip over a discarded shoe I realize I've made it all the way home, so I stumble drunkenly to my bed. I swear I'm asleep before my eyes close.

"Want to hear a story?" He sits hunched forward, bent knees coming up above the seat of his chair. His head tilts to the side, a dangerous flare igniting his lime eyes. We're in the therapy room, and everything seems perfectly normal- except we're alone. No Bradley.

I watch the smile twist his mouth as I nod.

"Now I used to have this gun, see? She was beautiful, she fit _perfectly_ in my hand." He pulls a pretend gun from his hip, twirling it around his finger before aiming it at me. "She was fast on the draw and she packed one hell of a punch." He pulls the trigger, and then puts the muzzle to his lips, pursing them and blowing across the top. My mouth goes dry. "She was like an ex _tension_ of me- she was my _right hand_." He looks lovingly at the imaginary piece, tenderly running his fingers over the barrel. Then his face goes sour, and he looks away.

"And _then_ one day I got locked up, and they _took_ her." He glares at me when he says it, the flare in his eyes building to an inferno. "When I got out, I went after her- I _had_ to." He stands suddenly, leaning forward over the table to cast his shadow over me. "I couldn't _stand_ the thought of someone else palming her handle, running fingers over her barrel, pushing _rounds_ into her _clip_ \- they'd _want_ to, how could they _not_?"

 _Okay_ I'm starting to think this isn't about a literal gun.

He straightens up, running a hand through his hair, then he's stalking around to my side of the table. The rage in his eyes has me jumping to my feet and knocking down my chair between us. He easily steps over it.

"She was a _si_ ren _,_ and the percussive _boom_ of igniting gunpowder was a song _no one_ could resist." He backs me into the wall without touching me, and I realize that's _all_ I want him to do right now. I can feel the tension between our bodies so severely that I'm not being melodramatic when I say it _hurts_ not to touch him, but I seem to be paralyzed, my arms won't move an inch.

"I'd though she'd be tucked into an evidence locker when I found her. That was bad enough- they'd _touched_ her with grimy _paws_ and they'd bagged her up like _trash_." He leans closer as he speaks, arms clasped tightly behind his back.

I can feel his breath on my face, urging me to close the distance. He straightens up again and grins at me, pulling away. The grin disappears almost immediately, the curve of his lips becoming entirely predacious but the jolt it sends through me rests lower than a simple case of the butterflies.

"You can imagine how _fru_ strating it was to break into the GCPD, kull _whole_ lotta _pigs_ , and then find that my _dar_ ling girl had been swiped. _I didn't like that_. No, I did not. Like. That. One. Bi- _t_." He ticks off each word with a wag of a long finger in front of my face. "I tracked them down- _all_ of them, every single _maggot_ that might have marred her." His breath is becoming heavier now, and the heat he radiates makes me delirious. "And then _I_ touched _them_ in a way they didn't like _at all_." His hands have dropped down to his sides, coiling into knots of scarred white skin.

"So many _pieces.._." He seems lost for a moment, eyes drifting before they snap back to my face. "After an _eternity_ of fruitless hunt, I found her in the hands of _a_ _piece of_ living _dirt_. He even had the _gal_ to point her at me. That was _not_ a good idea." He tilts his head and his smile comes back to snare me. "I left _him_ alive. _Sor_ ta… I'm not sure that _living_ is the best term for what he does now, but it's the thought that counts, right?" He drops his leer down to my level again. "You know what I did when I got her back in my hands _?"_ The sentence pitches up at the end, sending a shiver through me, and then his hands are fisted in my hair.

He yanks my head back to look at him and all I can think is _finally,_ because there is _no_ space between us anymore and my heart pounds against his chest. He leans in close, eyes on my mouth as he rests his forehead against mine. Then he looks up and _everything_ is green and I'm trying to drink in as much of it as I can.

" _How bout' I show you.._ " He whispers, his lips brushing mine and I am _so_ ready for this- and then he pulls my head forward with a wild cackle, and smashes he it back into the wall.

I wake with a shriek, and the world's most _confused_ lady-boner.

I settle back down and try to relax, somehow managing to do the complete opposite, as I suddenly feel _nauseatingly_ guilty. How many offences is it now? Let's _see_ : we've got an assault, concealing information about a homicide, inappropriate conduct with a patient, inappropriate ideation about a patient-that one isn't punishable but _lets be honest_ , _I deserve it_ \- and to top it all off, tampering with hospital records. And I'm supposed to _help_ this man?

 _Come on, don't kid yourself; you never thought you were here to_ help _him- you came to_ figure _him out._ Valid point, mean inner Harleen.

S _till_ , he reached out to _me_ tonight, and I had the nerve to show up after trying to _fuck_ some _other_ guy to get _him_ off my mind. Not to mention I felt like an absolute train wreck- and looked it, no _wonder_ the nurse was dubious about following my orders. Not exactly a good look to pull when you're going to try and talk down a psychotic clown that you _happen_ to have feelings for- but I still managed to help somehow didn't I?

I got him to go willingly into restraint, I _sang_ him to _sleep-_ I _helped!_ A rush of pride pushes back the sticky guilt and I bury my face into my pillow. It felt _good_ to help him. A kind of good I haven't felt in a long time and there's a part of me that's starting to think the hospital can only harm him. Maybe he would be better off outside with _me_ , so _I_ could help him always- _and that is a terrible idea because he is a psychopathic serial killer._

I touched his _scars_ , and wasn't that a shockingly intimate moment. I couldn't have been the only one who felt that… I don't even want to think about our _other_ 'intimate' moment, because it makes my blood pump in the wrong direction. Obviously I loose the battle, making no effort to retrieve the banished B.O.B as I go analogue in my desperation. There's no deliberation, no shuffling through fantasies- I know exactly who I'm thinking about and relief comes embarrassingly fast.

So yeah, _fuck_ it. I have a clown fetish. Hey, at least I'm not a furry, right?


	11. Chapter 11

**Authors Notes:** Hi guys! I'm back again much sooner than I thought I would be. Don't worry though, I'm still doing my homework- I've just traded sleep for writing! Can you blame me? These guys are just way too fun to think about.

So, this chapter turned out to be a pretty long one. I ended up adding in a scene with Selina that was thematically inspired by a fun bit of Gotham City Sirens (#19), and Harley also gets a face to face meeting with one of my favourite rogues, so let me know what you think! Also I think its fair to say that last chapter changed things between Harley and J, so they're having to try and navigate this new dynamic- some less gracefully than others (I'm looking at you Harley).

Also, just warning you now- this one comes with another cliffhanger, please don't kill me! I promise I'm building up to something awesome and I've always believed a little tension is good for the soul (;

Thank you to everyone for all the support as always, you guys really pump me up and I'm so happy to be making something you enjoy. Much love to you all!

P.s sorry about the false notification last night! Something went wrong when I tried to post and I didn't realize until amybawesome messaged me (thank you angel 3), so here it is for real!

 **Chapter 11: girl chats and little boys**

This is ridiculous.

I wake up late on Tuesday and I can't stop re-watching videos of him. I'm pretty sure I've seen them all at this point but I'm like a fucking _junkie_ right now. Actually, it's kind of getting creepy- sometimes I imagine that _I'm_ the girl he's holding hostage, and I _giggle_ like an idiot and I _blush_ and _wiggle_ -the whole nine yards.  
I know.  
This is _really_ bad.

What I _should_ do is cancel the book and tell Leland that I can't work with him anymore, but I'm not going to do that- I _can't_. I keep trying to reach for the phone but my arm jerks back every time, and _yeah_ , I know that wont hold up in court.  
I. Am. Fucked.  
Royally so, by the clown prince himself-

 _You wish._

"Shut up!"

 _Great now you're talking to yourself again._

"You think I don't know that?" I cry incredulously, at no one in particular.  
…

"Oh, so _now_ you don't have anything to say- Jesus Christ!" I collapse over my countertop with an aggravated growl, tugging at my hair in a vain attempt to clear my mind.

"Nooo _t work_ ing…"

I push away from the countertop shaking my head at the sound of my own voice before doing several power-walk circuits of the small space. When I catch sight of the microwave clock, I realize that I would be with him if I were at work today. Should be with him, in _our_ room because this is _our_ time- I'm trying desperately to come up with some way to vent whatever _horrible_ panicked energy has possessed me, but all I get is a cold sweat. I let out a cry of frustration, whirling on my fort and kicking at it, scattering pillows and blankets. I turn on my couch and pummel it until I just start to cry, and the sobbing weakens my punches.

 _Psych 101: physically venting frustration does not reduce the emotion or the urge to aggress._

"I KNOW!"

The hysterical blare of my voice is such a sharp contrast to the white noise that I flinch, and momentarily my mind snaps into focus. I go for my phone, gnawing at my lip, and my thumbs race around the screen.

 **Hey Kit-kat, you free?**

I've started slipping nicknames into conversation, and the more I do it, the less she objects. I think she might even be starting to _like_ some of them.

 **We hung out on Thursday.**

Her response comes back without her customary disinterested lag, which is definitely odd.

 **Please? I had a really fucked up night and I need a distraction- and also I have chocolate that I would be willing to share.**

I'm not sure if I actually think that will sway the vote, but I figure it can't hurt.

 **Fine- later. I'll stop by.**

I almost double-check the contact to make sure I'm texting the right person, not quite believing how easy that was. I wonder if something's _up_ with kitty… I stow the curiosity and take a quick shower before changing into my running gear and filling my teeny backpack with the chocolate bars I picked up on my way home. Left with nothing to do but wait, I give in and waste an hour watching more of _you know who._

At some point I get nervous about what she might think if she finds me doing this, so I shut my laptop. I remove one seat cushion from the fort-corpse to sit on, and arrange myself casually on the couch to watch sponge bob on TV. Because apparently a twenty-seven and a half year-old woman watching sponge bob with a dead fort will look _to_ tally normal. Eventually I give up on my poriferous friend, turning off the TV to try and rebuild the fort, which of course, is how Selina finds me.

This time I manage not to start at her window entry, and I try to act nonchalant about it. She drops into the room with an eyebrow already raised.

"Is there a _child_ here or something?" she asks with dry sarcasm. I'm mildly embarrassed, but I decide to own it.

"Just me!" I quip, lacing up my sneakers and grabbing my backpack.

" _Should have known_." She mutters with a sigh, tapping her toe like she's been waiting for hours.

I can keep pace with her on the warm up run now, and I'm proud of that. Maybe a bit _too_ proud, because I almost trip over the side of _one_ building, but I catch my self. When we settle in to spar on the wide roof of the midtown shopping center, I'm in my zone- I actually manage to knock her down twice! As a result she's grilling me harder, but I'm getting _better._ We've started working with a short staff or a pair of batons; Selina says the skills are transferable. I've really taken a liking to the staff, and sometimes I go off book, weaving in a flip or swinging around it to power a kick.

She's just disarmed me, so I get in close, blocking a painful strike with my forearm and grabbing her wrist with my other hand. I go to twist away her weapon as her elbow comes up to shove me away, and in the process she yanks down the neck of my freezes completely, and then lets me go.  
 _Shit._

"Harley- what is _that_?"

There's a cold jolt piercing my stomach

"Nothi-" I try to jerk away when her fingers dart for my collar but I'm too slow and I watch a strange mix of horror and outrage move under the ever-present sheath of superior indifference.

"Did someone hurt you? _"_ the tone of her voice is detached but there's an edge that almost makes me forget how awkward this situation is. _Awe, kitty cares!_

"Seriously Harley, are you in danger? Because-" Anger thickens her voice and I can tell she's struggling to remain impersonal.

"Selina! It's ok!" I throw up my hands and her mouth twists.

"Are you trying to de _fend_ -"

"No!" I can't help but laugh. "No, just… it's not like _that_..."

For a split second her face goes blank until her eyes widen in recognition. She looks away- and is that a _blu_ sh?

"Oh." An awkward chuckle escapes her, and it almost sounds like an apology. "I guess I uh..." she rubs at her neck. "I'm _usually_ on the other end."

Now it's my turn to flush and giggle, because the whip suddenly makes a _lot_ more sense. I almost choke when I remember _who_ I last saw her with, but I rein it in, stuffing it under a smutty grin. Seriously though, is she talking about _Bats?_

"So… you got a sweetheart, Selina?" I nudge her with my elbow for finally looks at me again; brows arched as she rolls her eyes and gives a haughty snort.

"Well I wouldn't call him _that_..." she trails off and I can tell she won't give me more without a prod.

"What's he like?" I edge closer and she watches with some suspicion, gaze grazing the now visible watercolor on my neck.

"God I don't know..." She sounds exhausted and there's a wistful distance in her eyes that looks foreign on her face. "Fascinating-" The word is nearly reverent, but it grinds down into frustration. " In _sane_..." She shakes her head and my eyebrows pop up. Yeah- dressing up in a rubber bat costume to punch criminals is definitely insane- _and Selina is totally a criminal_ \- sweet baby Jesus, that must be _pain_ fully hot.

"Can we _stop_ talking about this?" She grits her teeth, staring so hard ahead of her that I doubt she's actually seeing anything

"awe _come on_ , can't we just have like, two seconds of gossip- aren't you gonna ask me about _my_ fella?" I don't have any right to call him that but she doesn't know and it feels good to say- it's harmless, right? Kitty sighs, slouching forward to pick at her boots.

"Fine. How's your _fella_ Harls?"

I clap in delight that she's _actually_ playing along.

"Oh he's a total catch! He's a real funny guy, and he's _so_ smart-" I gush before I can stop myself, but the glare she cuts me forces me to tone it down. "You know, I been tryin' to figure out what it is exactly- because to be honest, he's probably a _re_ ally bad idea" _Probably_ is a laughable term in this context. "But... he keeps me on my toes, you know?" I've got my eyes on the skyline but I note when hers switch over to track my features, and she gives an almost imperceptible nod. "Half the time I think I know him better than anyone else in the world." It' s true, and I _know_ it's stupid- no one _really_ knows him. "It's so in _tox_ icating to feel like you've got a part of a person- something _no_ _one_ else gets experience, because they don't _let_ anyone else experience it- " Too many words have come out of my mouth, _way_ more than I had planned- but I'm not done. "The rest of the time remember that I don't know him at _all_..." The unexpected ache of that admission hangs between us and the silence insulates me, so I'm startled when she shatters it.

"Would you be interested if you did?"

"What?"

It's her turn to scour the roiling sea of rooftops that stretch out around us as I search the tightness of her lips.

"Would you be interested if he didn't confused the hell out of you?"

I consider her question, but the answer is already on my tongue.

"No."

"Me neither."

Neither of us speaks for a moment.

"Hey… you ever heard of theia mania?" I venture.

"No," She snorts. "but I'm pretty sure you're pronouncing it wrong."

"Not the point-" I try to jab her with a finger but she leans out of the way. "The ancient Greeks came up with it, it means divine madness." Selina scoffs at the melodramatic term, but I push on. "It's the origin of the whole cupids arrow thing,"

"The cheesier this gets, the more I want to go back to beating you up." She deadpans, cutting me off. I huff at her impatience.

"The metaphor of attraction being an arrow that literally _wounds_ the target describes the ache of intense attraction, the overwhelming need to seek them out, to pursue them _despite_ that ache, the inevitability of the urge itself…" My hands have come up and I'm gesturing, now, speeding up. Selina looks a bit taken aback, but she appears entirely attentive. "Divine madness- romantic insanity conceptualized as a gift from the gods… did you knows that the brain chemistry of someone in the first stages of attraction mimics that of a person with OCD? It's a literal, _physiological_ affliction." I don't know where that came from, and suddenly I feel completely embarrassed for the stupid, cheesy monologue-

"You think _way_ too much. Can we get back to business now please?" She steps back and tosses me my staff.

I get to work early on Wednesday morning, and as much as the idea pains me, I decide to seek out Leland instead of waiting for her to come by. At the very least it will give off the impression that I don't have anything to hide- and I _don't_. I didn't do _any_ thing that will up in the asylum surveillance archive and neither did he- we're _practically_ angels.

On the way there, I structure my performance. I need to be the first to ask about the guards, demonstrating significant, but not excessive empathy and guilt. She's definitely already spoken to any staff that was on hand during the incident, so she'll likely try to reprimand me for entering his cell alone and unarmed with him unrestrained. I need to admit how stupid that was, mention that I was terrified to demonstrate an appropriate fear response, and then go on to talk about how worried I was for the guards inside, how we didn't know if they were dead or dying and how they clearly needed immediate medical attention. Only after talking about the guards can I mention that I was worried for J because of the self-harm. Then to really drive it home, I'll lament about how underprepared I felt. How I was exhausted, and terrified, and on the verge of a panic attack myself. I need to be self-deprecating about it, emphasize how _sorry_ I am for not handling it better. I should have her apologizing in no time.

I take a moment in the stairwell to work myself up- holding my breath and then hyperventilating for a moment to amp up my sympathetic nervous system. I force myself to think about those guards- who knows, maybe they have spouses, children, maybe they'll be permanently disabled and unable to work, forced to live an impotent existence in the shadow of one unfortunate encounter with a madman.

That's right, I'm getting in _chara_ cter. It's been a while since I had to do this so consciously, but I'm ready when I knock on the door.

"Come in." Her voice is muffled but she sounds tired. _Perfect_.

I push through to see her leaning over her desk, shoulders rounded forward into a slouch. She looks up with irritation that swiftly turns to concern the moment she sees me. I'm shaking slightly of course, and my eyes are rimmed in red because I rubbed furiously at them on my way down the hall, but she doesn't need to know that.

"Hi Joan-" My voice is mostly breath, and I rush forward to crumple into the chair in front of her desk.

"Harleen!" She exclaims, brows pulled together and pointing up with worry. She's about to continue but I cut her off.

"How are the officers?" I blurt, like it's been eating at me since I left on Tuesday morning. Her face falls, and I let my hands come up hesitantly to press against my chest.

"Richards is doing alright, but… Officer Martin died on the operating table yesterday afternoon," I take in a sharp breath, pinching my forehead. "and we lost Officer Estes last night." Her own breath is jerky as it leaves her lips and she stares just to the left of my face. "Capriano is in a coma, and Ellard is still in critical condition."

My hands fly up the rest of the way to cover my mouth.

"Oh god, this is all-" I let my voice cut out, then shake my head and swallow hard. "If I could have talked him down faster-"

"Harleen-" Her voice is gentle and she stands, walking around her desk to sit in the chair next to me.

"I am _so_ _sorry_ , those poor men! I just-"

"Harleen please," She leans forward and takes my hand, giving them a squeeze. "This is _not_ your fault, ok? I've spoken to the nurse that was on hand last night, but I need to hear what happened from you, ok?" She's got her therapist voice on, but her mask is thin. I nod and swallow again, closing my eyes again like I'm trying to compose myself, and I swear, when I open them her heart shows straight through her chest.

"Ok." I take a slow breath.

"What happened when you got here?"

" God, there was so much noise…" I cringe a bit- I can still hear it. It's _always_ good to temper your lie with some truth. " You could tell they had been screaming for hours- I can't _imagine_ what it must have been like to have been there the whole time…" I clear my throat. "When I got to the D wing, it was absolute chaos. I just saw the men-" I my voice cracks, and I paint a wash of painful guilt over my features "On the _floor_ , there were _so_ many of them, and there was so much blood, and we didn't know if they were _dead_ , or _dying-_ " I choke back a sob. " They _clearly_ needed immediate medical attention and he- he was smacking his face against the wall _so hard_ \- I have _never_ seen anything like that, there was so much _blood!_ " I squeeze my eyes hard to bring up moisture. "I didn't know what to do! They had already given him the full legal dose of Lorazepam and we obviously couldn't send anyone else in, and he was screaming _my_ name- God, I just, I panicked! I was just so _tired_ , and I couldn't _think_ with all that noise- I can't believe how horribly I handled that. I mean, I've been working here for almost a _year_ now, I should _know_ how to handle an emergency with a cool head but I-"

"Harleen-" She squeezes my hands again, and then releases them, making her voice calm though her posture mirrors my own dejected slouch. "You _cannot_ blame your self for what happened. This is _absolutely_ my fault; you should _never_ have been put in that position so early on in your residence here. I was at an event with my husband-" She sneers almost imperceptibly on that word. _Uh oh…_ "And I had my phone off, which is abso _lutely_ inexcusable." She shakes her head. "I can't begin to express how sorry I am for letting you down like that."

"Joan, no, you couldn't have known-"

"It's my job to know." She gives me a sad smile. "Please continue."

I take another steeling breath, wringing my hands 'absentmindedly'.

"I just kept thinking about how we needed to get those men to the hospital, their _lives_ were in _my_ hands… So I went into the cell, and I know, I _know_ \- how stupid that was, I just didn't know what to do!" I throw up my hands and to my delight, Leland looks at me with sympathy.

"I'm glad you realize how reckless that was, but I also understand how stressful it is to be forced to make decisions in a situation where someone's life is in danger. It's something you never really get over as a doctor, and there _will_ be failures. And they will hurt, _every_ time, and you'll feel _so_ guilty, but ultimately you have to remember that you do more good than harm. You are a _good_ doctor Harleen Quinzel. I know you've had a difficult couple of weeks, but you _need_ to know that _it will pass_." I'm nodding at her as she speaks, chewing on my lip. She looks pointedly into my eyes as if to enforce the point, giving me a reassuring smile. I return a slightly less steady one.

"Please, tell me what happened when you entered the cell. " She prompts, seemingly satisfied.

"I was scared out of my _mind_. He had stopped yelling and he was watching me- just the look on his face, I could tell he in some sort of dissociative state, and I just, oh _god_ it was so stupid-" I bury my face in my hands. "I felt that I needed to ground him to calm him down, so I got closer- the _whole_ time I was just trying to see if any of those _poor_ _men_ were _breathing-"_ I choke up a bit, and Joan rubs my arm supportively.

"When I got there I took his hand- it's something that's been helpful as a grounding tool with other patients, I have _no_ idea _why_ I thought it would work with him- I was just so _scared,_ I felt like I couldn't breath-" _Wink, wink._

Joan squeezes my arm.

"Slow down, sweetie. It's _okay_ , you were under a tremen _dous_ amount of pressure." There's the mom voice.

I inhale deeply, and exhale thoroughly before continuing.

"When I took his hand, he was able to focus on me for a moment- he appeared to be having hallucinations. I just kept wondering if he was going to turn on me-" I shiver. "He told me that he'd had a bad dream, and he repeatedly mentioned that someone was trying to get him- at the time I believed that he was having an episode of paranoid psychosis, and I suspected that he had projected his delusions onto the guards that had been trying to subdue them. He was unwilling to take his eyes off them as we spoke, and I realized that I wouldn't be able to calm him if he could still see them…" I sigh running a hand over my hair. "So I asked them to walk just a little way down the hall, just out of sight, I reasoned they could hear me if I screamed- and I _know_ , that was stupid. I just…I didn't feel that I had any other choice… I just wanted to get out of there as soon as possible. He _did_ appear to become slightly more lucid after they left, and I attempted to reaffirm that he was safe, and that no one was coming to get him- god, it was so surreal. I mean, he's _the Joker_! " The tremble in my voice is genuine.

"He does have a history of malingering." She adds carefully, and I can tell she's checking in.

"I know, that's what I kept thinking!" My brow furrows, fraught with indecision. "I had _never_ seen him like that- I mean he's a good actor but- well, whether it was real or not, I wont lie- he had me questioning. I thought that if he was actually having a psychotic break, I was doing my best to treat him, and if not I felt that playing along was still the best option, at least until I could get him to let us to retrieve the injured men."

She seems convinced enough with my skeptical logic, nodding for me to go on.

"He seemed to regress to a child-like state, at which point he agreed to let the other officers come back if I stayed with him…" I've face go blank but for the confusion in my eyes, speaking In hesitant tones like I'm talking about a dream " and he asked me to sing him nursery rhymes."

Leland actually snorts.

"Well _that's_ one for the history books."

I allow myself to crack a slightly dazed grin, and I let her see it dip when I look away.

"God- I have never been that scared in my _life_. I just keep thinking, if I'd _only_ been able to hold it together…"

" Look, I won't pretend it doesn't scare the shit out of me that you went in there with him- _pardon my French_. And you better not ever do anything like that again- but given the circumstances, you did very well Harleen, I'm im _pressed_."

I peek up at her with a half hopeful smile.

"You think so?"

"I _know_ so. He's an extremely difficult and unpredictable patient. I think you would do well to remain dubious about the legitimacy of his episode- but it does seem that you've been able to establish a rapport with him, and he appears to be showing a certain leniency towards you that he rarely shows to staff members- or to anyone for that matter…" She seems lost in thought but her lips purse when her eyes come back to my mine. "Don't let it go to your head Harley- he is still an _extremely_ dangerous offender and it is _imperative_ that you do not underestimate him- ok?"

 _Oops-_ I may have broken character there for a second. I bring back the nervous gnawing of my lower lip, tensing my forehead in utmost seriousness.

"I understand completely Joan. I'm doing my best to remain impartial." I let the strength of my facade waver long enough to make her think about how _hard_ I'm trying to stay strong- just a young woman doing her very best under the burden of a world renowned psychopath- _poor little me._ She nods emphatically.

"You're doing a _great_ job. I'll need you to fill out this incident report-" she leans across her desk to grab a sheath of forms, handing them over. "There's no rush of course- I want you to take it easy this week, but if you could get them to me by Monday it would be much appreciated."

"Of course- and thank you Joan, you've been so supportive."

"Please Harleen, don't mention it." Right- because every time I do, it reminds her that my involvement was her fault in the first place. I bite back a smile, just about ready to do a breakfast club fist-pump of triumph when I catch her shoulders slump again and her hand comes up to rub at her creased brow. "There's one more thing- it's about Edward."

This time when my stomach drops, the panic scratching my face and yanking at my shoulders is authentic.

"He's asked to be taken off your case."

 _"What?"_ I squeak. _Are you fucking-_

She takes in my rapidly spiraling state and throws up her hands in attempt to hamper the flood.

"Harleen, you need to remember that sometimes patients-"

I'm not listening.

"What did I _do? I thought things were going so well,_ up until the- _how_ could I have thought he was ready to-"

" _Sometimes_ ," She tries again with assertion. "Patients are unable to _accept_ the help we have to offer." _I was trying_ so _hard_ , I thought he _trusted_ me- I thought he _liked_ me _! "_ I don't believe for a moment that your treatment of Mr. Nygma caused his outburst, and I certainly don't think his request for a new doctor should be taken personally." _I spend_ months _working with him, I got them to lower his medications, I buy him books, crosswords, a godamn chess set- "_ Although I certainly understand that that as his physician its difficult for you not to feel responsible." _And the moment I make one little mistake- No, the moment_ he _makes a mistake- he throws it all back in my face? Ungrateful little backstabbing-_ " I think we should try to see this as a positive turn of events-" continues my boss placatingly and I shove down a vicious sneer. "The Joker is challenge enough on his own in combination with the other lighter cases you have on your docket."

 _It's like she thinks I can't handle-_ I paint a self-consciously relieved smile over my outrage.

"You're right. A lighter workload will probably do me some good." _Fuck you Ed. Fuck you, fuck you-_ I give my boss a _great_ , big _smile_ , but I think she can see that my heart isn't in it. She clearly can't tell why though, because she still looks guilty.

"Harley…" I can tell she's still considering whatever she's about to say as she worries an earlobe between two fingers. "Would you like to accompany me to check up on Ms. Isley?"

Despite a slight twinge at the memory of _some_ one _else_ having taken an interest in Isley, I immediately perk up at the prospect. I mean I'm still _cu_ rious...

"Yes please!" _You sound like a child._ I clear my throat. "I don't have anything scheduled until after lunch."

Leland leads me to the newer elevator that goes down into the special containment facility used for meta-humans, which is shiny chrome, concrete and artificial lighting all the way down. It opens onto a long hall lined with heavy steel doors bearing only numbers. We stop at #5433. Joan knocks once and a small panel slides over to reveal a female guard in her early thirties. She's got a strong jawline, chestnut hair pulled back under her cap, and friendly smile when she sees Leland .

"One moment!" She sings it rather cheerfully, and the panel slides shut before a series of clanks sound out and the door swings open.

"Hi Abby, this is my colleague, Doctor Quinzel."

"It's nice to meet you doctor" Her mellifluous voice stands at a striking contrast to the strength of her bone structure. As she offers her hand she dwarfs me. Then again most people do, but she probably has at least a head on me and she has enough muscle to back it up.

"Please, call me Harley." Her handshake is firm but friendly, and she gives me a warm smile before leading me into the cell- which looks more like a high medical facility from a sci-fi movie. It's ridiculous- metal and white plastic with touch panels embedded in the walls. There's even one of those security-tube thingies which, as Abby explains, is different from the ones at the airport because it sprays you with some sort of supposedly safe herbicide to kill any plant life that might somehow be lurking on your body. The stuff dries the moment it hits my skin in three big bursts, and it leaves a sickly sweet smell in the air that singes my olfactory receptors. I emerge into a long, fluorescent-lit hallway painted the same sterile white. There's only one steel door at the very end.

"Ms. Isley's containment facility has to be encased in at least 25 feet of concrete reinforced with iron plates to prevent her from communicating with nearby plant life," Explains the guard calmly as she walks, as if that isn't an absolutely abs _urd_ fact.

We reach the end of the hallway and Abby swipes a card through the reader next to the door, which slides open, revealing itself to be another elevator. " She also needs sunlight- she happens to photosynthesize. She still needs to eat some, but it appears to account for a portion of her caloric intake. She just doesn't do well without it." I pick my jaw up off the floor- this is the stuff they don't teach you in med school. The elevator glides smoothly downward with a negligible hum. "Artificial light doesn't seem to cut it for her, so the top of her containment area is actually glass- that's why we had to build it so far down." Abby seems very casual about this and I start to wonder if _anything_ fazes her. I look to Leland and find her watching my awe with a covert little smirk. The elevator dings.

"Oh, Harleen- I have to warn you, I had a bit of a shock the first time I came down here, Ivy's been boycotting the uniform."

"What do you-" I stop talking because I see _exactly_ what she means the moment the elevator doors open.

"Oh _my_." Is all I can manage and my cheeks flush bright red.

Abby chuckles under her breathe, and I pointedly focus on the pristine floor of the small room we walk into, the thick, crystal clear wall of glass that separates our area from a slightly larger space. This one is equipped with a small bunk bolted to the wall, a few books, a shredded orange uniform, and a tray of untouched food that I assume was supposed to have been her breakfast. There's even a small mirror over a sink next to an opaque partition which is easily big enough to conceal both a toilet and a shower- does she _ever_ get out of this _cell?_ The thought makes my stomach sink and in spite of my earlier discomfort, I drag my eyes up to the chair she's perched on, close to the glass.

She sits cross-legged, long limbs folded and tucked beneath the swell of her hips, which arc up to the dip of her waist. Chlorophyll skin disappears under the thick curls of rich raspberry hair that falls over her shoulders, obscuring her breasts. Her neck is long and slender, straight as she holds her head high, staring us down as we approach. Her cheekbones are angular and high, carving over her jaw, which makes a soft slope down to her narrower chin. Her nose is strong but feminine and her eyebrows are thick, skeptically arched over heavily lidded eyes with long, feathery lashes.

When her gaze falls on me I am captivated by the gold and emerald veins that lace her irises. She is _stunning_.

Her full rose mouth curls in disgust and she looks away.

" _What_ \- is she here to take more samples?" Hisses the redhead, shooting a withering glare at my superior before switching it back to me. "Enjoying the _exhibit_?" She sneers.

"I-" My voice is choked and a bit high.

"Pamela," Soothes Joan, stepping forward to save me. "This is my _friend_ , Doctor Quinzel."

Isley continues to watch me like she's _criticizing_ every part of my being. I try to smile at her instead of gnawing on my lip and I know the expression looks just as anxious as it is.

"Friend." She spits the word like it's dirty. "Pl _ease_ \- I'm an oddity. She's here for the freak show." Her voice cracks at the end and it's so slight that I'm not sure anyone else heard it but suddenly I _ache_ for this woman, and I feel horrendously guilty to still be as curious as I am. Joan opens her mouth to speak for me but I put a hand on her arm to pause her.

"I'm sorry if I've intruded on your privacy miss Isley, I certainly didn't mean to offend you. I have to admit I _was_ curious- but I have no intention to study you." Her eyes are still narrowed but her lips have pursed, like she might be considering me. She looks so different from the smiling woman in the university staff photo… remembering one of her articles, I get a stroke of brilliance. "I wanted to meet one of the people who brought _Thismia americana_ back from extinction."

Her face goes blank for a second, before her guard comes back up and she raises an eyebrow.

"You've read my research." It doesn't sound like a question but it _is_ one, and I can tell she's surprised. _Yahtzee!_ I let out a breath I didn't know I had been holding, now able to give her a real smile.

"I have to admit, a lot of it went way beyond my very basic knowledge of biochemistry, but the project was absolutely _fascinating_ -" I struggle for words and they come out in a rushed backlog "When I was little and I first found out why there aren't any dinosaurs walking around, it hit me pretty hard. I started having all these _nightmares_ about different things going extinct, like puppies, and lions and roses, and the big oak tree in my backyard…" _You're rambling Harley_ , _come_ _on_ , _get to the point_. "Extinction is such a horrifying concept- the _permanent_ loss of an entire _species_ …" I shake my head. "I'm happy that because of people like you, we might be able to save them." I _swear_ I see a flicker of a smile in her eyes. She doesn't say anything, but she nods and that's enough.

Leland's eyes are so wide I think they might pop, but she recovers quickly, and turns to her patient.

"How are you feeling today, Ms. Isley?"

" _Cold_." She crosses her arms. "And the food is disgusting- I can _feel_ the pesticides you know, they make me _sick."_

Joan's eyebrows crease, and she pulls her clipboard to flip through the charts.

"That isn't anywhere in your files." She finishes with a sigh. "It might be the medication- are you dizzy? Any headache?" Isley has started shaking her head before Leland 's finished talking.

"Surp _rising_ as it may be, two weeks wasn't long enough to completely _vivisect_ me with time left over to reassemble _my_ _body_."

 _Jesus Christ._ That _had_ to have been a hyperbole- _right?_

 _I_ feel sick now. I peer over at Joan, feeling harsh pricks of disappointment in my chest. At least she has the decency to look uncomfortable.

"I'll have someone come down to examine you."

Isley is breathing hard now, her chest heaving as her hands come up like claws to cover her face. She digs her fingers into her scalp, standing and striding to the back of her cell to curl up on the floor in the corner. _That_ is _not_ _right_.

Leland just sighs and turns back to the elevator, as I stand frozen by the battered woman in the cage.

"Quin _zel_ -" snaps Leland , and I march to her side and into the elevator, trying to contain the silent rage climbing up my throat like stomach acid. I manage to keep my trap shut all the way out, giving Abby a curt smile as I leave because I'll _def_ initely be _back_. She returns it with added warmth _._

Just before Abby shuts the door, Leland stops her.

"Could you turn up the air conditioning in her unit?" she asks, "I'll have a new uniform sent down."

My brows pull down, but I know I need to wait until we're back in the main hallway to voice my concerns. I notice Abby's shoulders slump a bit, but she nods and waves us a slightly less cheerful goodbye. _Good to know._

I take a moment to steady myself after the door closes, and then I break the silence.

"Don't you think that might be a bit much?" I make my face apologetic though I feel far from it.

Joan sighs, obviously having expected my dissent.

"This isn't just an Asylum, it's also a _correctional_ facility. Ms. Isley needs to learn that throwing a fit won't get her special treatment- we have _rules_. It's important for her recovery that she respects them." The speech is a drone and I don't know if she really believes it or if it's just been drilled into her. I hold back an aggravated huff.

"What if the rules are directly interfering with her recovery?"

"Don't beat around the bush Harleen." She groans. I can't help a chuckle at her unintentional pun. She doesn't seem to find it funny though, so I stifle myself and push on.

"I don't think Pamela was being obstinate for the hell of it. Frankly, she seems _scared_. You know I worked on a study about psychiatric illness in the Meta human population at Belle Reve? The ability to control a substrate or an organism often comes with a strong attachment to that vessel, to the point that it feels like it's a _part_ of them. Ivy has had a _limb_ ripped away, she was experimented on- god knows _how-_ and now she's stuck here. That _room_ was the opposite of a natural setting for her, she's shell-shocked and freezing her out is only going to make her feel like you're the enemy."

Leland jabs the button for the elevator and the door opens almost immediately.

"Well we can't give her access to live plant life, it's a security risk. What _exactly_ do you suggest I do?" Her voice is tight and she rubs at what I expect is a decent tension headache.

"Let her ditch the uniform for a while. Maybe turn up the heat so she's comfortable, find out what kind of food won't make her sick- and don't send another doctor down there to examine her, that's definitely a trigger." I realize latently that I'm lecturing my superior, but my mouth isn't done. "She needs to feel like she's not under attack here, like she can have a human support system- not just one made up of _trees_ and _begonias_." I immediately hold my breath when it's all out, and I can barely stand to look at her because I am _sure_ she's about to _lose_ it on me-

Her hand drops from her face and she looks _stunned_. Then she squints at me hard and I'm about to start banging on the elevator doors when she speaks.

"Actually that's not a _terrible_ idea…" Her voice is low and hollow, but there's an inch of hope there. "Thank you Harleen," she says finally. "I appreciate your input."

"Really, Joan, " I exhale in relief. "it's not a problem. You've been so wonderful to me since I started here- it's good to have a mentor like _you_ in a place like this."

Her expression softens at the word 'mentor', and she smiles at me.

"I'm honoured that you consider me a mentor- and I'm so glad you felt comfortable enough to open up to me today, I know how difficult this job is. I hope you know you can always come to me."

"Of course, thank you."

We part at her door, where she seems to be compelled to give me a hug, and once more reminds me that she's available to talk.

 _Damn_ I'm good.

Wednesday and Thursday go by in a blur, I fill them easily with work and practice. I write up session notes until my fingers bruise, and I go over sensei Selina's teachings until I accidentally hit a picture frame and end up cutting my foot on the broken glass.

Then, just like that, it's Friday.

I'm wearing a little red tie with my button down and my pencil skirt, and I think I look super cute. I run eyes over my prep notes without really reading them, and opt to spend my time foraging for an emergency coffee instead. I manage to get it down in record time and it happens to be my third cup of the day so you could day I'm feeling the buzz. I pace circles in my office- do I meet him at his cell? No, I don't want to look too excited.

I plop down at my desk and play a game of bubble trouble in attempt to un-jangle my nerves, but by the 5 minute mark I'm feeling completely flustered, so I decide to take the scenic route down to the therapy room. I check the mirror at my desk to make sure that my collar covers up my bruises, and I make a last minute decision to swipe on that red lipstick before straightening my tie. I tuck the mirror away and grab my clipboard and my ID card, which I slip into my pocket before I head into the hall. I take the stairs, stepping out at every floor to cross the opposite stairwell. I'd thought the walk might distract me but _I'm going to see him so soon-_ the thought becomes a disorienting mantra, and my body feels unbearably light when I reach the door to the therapy room.

I hear the ding of the elevator behind me as my hand touches the doorknob- _he's here_ \- and I freeze. Has he seen me? Should I just turn around and wait, hold the door open? Or is that awkward- _Oh god._ I dart through and rush to my chair, ears tuned almost painfully to the sound of his approach. I force my shoulders down, I lace my fingers in my lap, then cross my legs, uncross them- I hear the door open and I jump to my feet.

I see the bruises first.

Swollen nebulas of colour adorning his brow, and kissing across the tops of his cheeks to the bridge of his nose. His coppery curls hang loose into his eyes, obscuring a few stitches that slice through his left eyebrow. I would be heart broken if he didn't look so _hot_.

" _Kitten_ you're back!" He breaks the silence with his exuberant cry, already wriggling out of the clearly impotent straightjacket. "Here I was thinking you'd up and left little old _me_ to rotin this _crypt_." His face is all affection and relief- from the innocent twinkle in his eye to the contraction of his scars, showing tooth and pink gums. Warmth washes over me and I know the smile I give in return is transparently dizzy. I catch that tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth though, and for a moment, the pins that jab at my stomach make me falter.

But then his hands latch onto my shoulders, and he crushes me to his chest.

I forget any ill premonition, I am deaf to Bradley's cry, and though my eyes are open, I'm blind to everything but the rough orange canvas scratching at my cheek as his body shakes with laughter. My hands are pressed against his stomach between our bodies, trapped where they flew instinctively to brace me, and my mind goes comp _letely_ empty when I register the rigid terrain that ripples under my palms.

 _Sweet Jesus_.

My lungs fill with his stimulant cocktail of musky perspiration and the piney soap that Arkham provides, and I don't even notice that his embrace is the only thing that keeps my legs from giving out. I don't think about how inappropriate it is to nuzzle into his sternum with those _hands_ snaking down my back, and _oh_ _my,_ over my hips! When he releases me I stumble backwards.

The drywall that rushes up to my back is as good a wake up call as a bucket of ice down my pants, and my guilty eyes dart to the security camera that he had obscured with his lanky form. He spins, putting his hands in his pockets as he strolls over to his side of the table and takes a seat like everything is normal.

"Are you familiar with the twelfth night, Quinzel?"

I'm still reeling as I robotically move back to my chair, hoping that Bradley doesn't notice how viciously red I've become, so it takes me a moment to understand the question.

"I read it in high school, but I don't remember much." I reply, trying to steady my heart rate.

" _Ditto_ , sister. Any- _ways_ , there's this one bit I like: you've got Olivia, the rich girl-you remember her? She's chatting with the court jester, and she makes a joke about this lord who is abso _lutely_ sloshed, she asks this fool to get the coroner because the lord is just _that far gone_. And the fool says 'He is but mad yet, and the fool shall look to the madman.'" he clicks his tongue. "Smart guy... you know his name?" I shake my head, at this point thoroughly apprehensive and extremely confused.

He chuckles, the sound strange and slightly off key.

"Feste." He grins around the name but I swear his green eyes have gone black. _Fuck_. "Funny spelling though, you'd think it would be f-e-s-t, you know like a _party_ , but it's not. _F-e-s-t-e._ "

 _Fuck fuck fuck-_ do I need to warn Tavis that he might have contracted my homicidal patient? What do you even _do_ in that situation- go into witness protection? There's a glint in his eye like polished ice. It cuts through me, latching onto my bones, and I realize it isn't really an _gry_ \- just detached… My stomach churns.

I didn't _want_ him to know, but if he did find out, I guess I'd hoped he might at _least_ be jealous! _This_ is just...he's _teasing_ me about it, _brushing_ it away, and even though he's acting like he couldn't care less, I still want to spurt apologies.

"I remember him now-" I let my therapist mask down willingly- _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry-_ "To be honest he didn't really do it for me." I can't look him in the eyes, so I stare at his mouth, knowing full well that it's no safer. "I prefer a different brand of comedy."

He snorts at my thinly veiled admission but I see a twitch of his zygomatic muscles when I bring my hand up to rub my neck, fingers slipping down the collar of my shirt. I press them into the tender skin- skin he _knows_ to bare his handprint in purple and green. I let him watch me wince.

One of his eyebrows darts up and his eyes flash like charged neon and argon. Then they go flat, and he glares at me. My hand drops back into my lap, and I grin into my hands because even just for a _second_ , he _liked_ that. I'm waiting for him to say something, to change the subject- _any_ thing, but the silence stretches on. I look up to find him staring me down, and I say the first thing that comes to mind.

"You're very well read."

"My secret is spark notes." He counters with complete indifference, examining his stubby nails- which I assume are kept short by force.

"No, seriously, to match you I'd have to add degrees in advanced biochemistry and mechanical engineering to my doctorate at the _very_ least- and I've seen your IQ scores."

He tilts his head, rolling his shoulders back and reclining in his chair with a little smirk as I speak. When I pause, his chin dips and his eyebrows arch slowly as if to say ' _well, don't stop there'._ I feel a little jolt and I clear my throat.

"Speaking of tests, your ability to fake results is absolutely unparalleled- you manipulate your scores to fit whatever diagnosis suits you, and you come up clean on measures _specific_ ally designed to detect malingering. I could _never_ do that, and I freakin' work here!" I realize my voice is rising with my hands when he chuckles.

"Aww don't be so hard on yourself, cupcake. You've got _potential_ -" He winks and my chest swells. "You just didn't get the right kind of _school_ ing-which is to say any kind that takes place in an _a_ ctual school." He says it quite matter-of-factly, clasping his hands over his knee. _Over his knee…_ Nope. Bad thoughts _. Stop that Harley._ "I prefer an _auto_ didactic approach- the average educator caters to the lowest common denominator, and the outlier is neglected. Learning should be a _creat_ ive, experi _ential_ process- I always make the _best_ bombs when I'm improvising." He quirks an eyebrow.

"Actually, I agree with you."

" _Do you?_ " He leans in towards me and I want to meet him in the middle and- _shut up little Harley, you are not needed here_.

" _Uh_ -I do-I mean, I think our school system is flawed. It forces short-term learning and churns out kids who only know how to fill in bubbles."

"My thoughts _exactly_. So. What else can _you_ do?" He makes his fingers into a little gun and cocks it at me and suddenly I'm back in my dream and I can't breath.

"What do you mean?" I ask with a slight rasp, as my throat is suddenly un _bear_ ably dry.

"Well, I already l know that you're a psychiatrist, your credentials are _far_ from mediocre for someone your age." He says it like he's my senior by decades but he can't be past his mid to late thirties- still, I blush. "You could work any _where_ \- but you've chosen to work with the criminally insane- at _Arkham_ , none the less…Now _that's_ interesting- _why_ is that?" The question is clearly rhetorical but he pauses just the same, feigning reflection, one index finger coming up to run the sharp edge of his jaw and tap the point of his chin as he stares into space. "Maybe" His gaze flicks back to snatch mine. "Someone close to you went _coo-koo_ for coco-puffs. _Maybe_ you just think we're interesting." He shrugs, then a dark little grin presses at his lips "Or maybe it's because you _know_ there's a _li_ -ttle bit of _us_ in _you_ ," His finger darts out and he pokes my nose. My eyes go crossed and I yelp, lurching back to shoot him a stormy look that does little to disguise how ruffled I am. He cackles, tipping his head back.

"I do gymnastics." I wasn't expecting to speak, so I'm actually surprised to hear the sound of my own voice when I blurt it out. His eyes widen, and the smile that comes across his features is wide with genuine delight.

"Are you kidding? _Dr._ Quin _zel_ dresses up in a leotard and does _backflips_ after work?"

I cross my arms, suddenly feeling ridiculous. His giggle makes me immediately regret the show of distress.

"Well I mostly do trapeze." I'm not sure why I feel the need to clarify that I don't _just_ do summersaults and cartwheels, but I do- and now I can't tell if he actually thinks it's cool or if he's making fun of me. It bothers me more than it should. " I used to compete." I add with a defensive sniff.

"Trap- _eze?_ HA!" He really _does_ seems overjoyed though, kicking up his feet like he can't help himself as he rocks laughter _\- hey,_ maybe circus tricks aren't a half-bad selling point if you're in the market to date a clown. Which I'm not, because he's locked up, and I'm his doctor. And also he kills a lot of people. _Right._

"I didn't have a _clue_ you were an actual bally-girl when I called you _Harley Quinn!_ " He claps like a little boy.

This time the name doesn't scare me, it doesn't make me sick- this time it loops itself in my auditory cortex and sends tingles down my spine. " _Oh this is priceless."_ He hoots. _You don't know the half of it Puddin'_ \- Ha! _Puddin._ That's kinda cute… His laughter dies abruptly, and when even his smile falls away, so does mine- I don't know what's coming, but _I don't like it_.

"I _love_ the circus, you know." He captures his lower lip between his teeth and lets it slip between them as his eyebrows pinch. "My dad did too…" He sighs, and looks away, shoulders hunching ever so slightly. Wait a second- _I know where this is going_. I narrow my eyes.

"Mistah J, forgive me for the interruption, but I've heard this one before-" His eyes flick up to mine, any trace of sentimental dysphoria lost to a sharp glint and a coy half-grin. I offer only a prim purse of my lips "And if you drop your pants in here I'm not sure our Bradley will be able to resist himself." Bradley grumbles, prompting the Joker to grin, leaning back and spreading his legs like the worst kind of person on the subway. But now I'm looking at- _Nope_. No I'm not. _Never mind._

" _Well_ , I mean who can blame him?" Taunts the clown, wiggling his eyebrows. I'm not sure whether it was meant for Bradley or me. I clear my throat.

"I'd like go back to your extra-curriculars'."

'Which ones?"

"All the things you make outside of Arkham. And well, sometimes _in_ Arkham- the toxins, the explosives, the _tricks_." He flattens a hand against his chest and plasters on a gob smacked expression. "You once made a lethal neurotoxin using only cleaning supplies that were on hand in a storage closet _and_ you managed to kill 6 people with it- not to mention about 20 other staff member had such intense psychogenic symptoms that they were _admitted_. "

"Child's play." He waves a hand dismissively but I can tell he considers it at least a minor accomplishment.

"I'd hate to imagine what sort of trouble you might get into when you grow up." I don't do a very good job hiding my smirk.

"Oh I don't plan on it- _say_ , if I shook some fairy dust on you would you jump out a window with me?"

"I'm too old for Never-land." I retort, but I'm grinning from ear to ear. His brows arch with haughty disbelief.

" _Ooooh_ , I must have been mis _taken_ \- you aren't _Wen_ dy, _no_ , you're _Bar_ bie." He makes a point of raking his gaze down from my face and even though I know he's doing it to set me off, I feel a thrill shooting through me that makes me cross my legs. " _Li_ -ttle boys and Barbies…" he sings, tilting his head. "It's _all_ fun and games until _some_ one gets decapitated…" His voice is eerily high, and if the lights went off right now I'm quite sure his eyes would still glow violent green.

I should be panicking. I won't lie, my heart is racing, Adrenaline has me hopped up like amphetamine- but I _should_ be standing up and telling him the session is over, I should be running back to my office to lock the door and cry, but I'm not. I'm- _Jesus Christ_ , I'm leaning _for_ ward!

I correct my mistake and _Mr_. _Lothario_ has the _aud_ acity to roll his eyes at me. I glare in return but it comes out contrived.

"So you make your best bombs when you're _improvising_." I start, without much of an idea as to where I'm going. "…How often do you improvise?"

He groans, tipping his head all the way back to rest on top of his chair in an operatic display of boredom and his hands fly up into the air, flexed with exasperation.

" _Ev_ erything is improv, it's silly to think otherwise." He turns his hands over and cuts them through the air. "Think about building a bomb like an art project, because that's what it _is_. You make sketches, calculations, but when it comes to the final product there's always an _element_ of un _certainty-_ " His hands dance along with his words now, though his head remains tilted to the ceiling. "I've decided to embrace that. Like Picasso, I studied my craft and now I _play_ with it, because I know the rules enough to _warp_ them." His head comes back up, and in one swift motion he's leaning forward over the desk, grinning like a Cheshire cat. I jump, eyes going wide and the room seems to get brighter as he gets closer. " _That's_ important- you have to _know_ your enemy. You have to court them until you know ex _actly_ which seams to tug at, and then _voila!_ It's a _master_ piece."

"Just like art…" I whisper, and it takes me a moment to realize that I'm _staring_ at him. I gulp, and look away, fidgeting.

" _Just. Like. Art_." His voice is like velvet, just as smooth as the grin on his face and the skin of his scars.

"Do you-"

He stands abruptly, raising two sage fingers to halt my question.

"As much as I would just _love_ to stay and chat after-hours," He goes on like I'm not struggling to breath. "I've got an appointment with Doctor Finley and a pair of rubber gloves that I _really_ can't miss." He whirls to hold his arms out to Bradley and the guard comes to attention, helping my patient back into his jacket. At some point Bradley notices my confusion, and grumbles something about Joker having a medical exam.

I try to hide the oddly diffuse jealousy that constricts round my stomach- he's right, the session _is_ over… but how the _hell_ is a medical exam better than me? I don't wait for Bradley to finish doing up J's buckles, snatching my clipboard and rushing to make it out the door ahead of him.

"I'll see you next week." I snip, and he snickers- of _course_.

I try not to let my shoulders hitch up, but I don't hold the door open as I pass through, leaving him to brace it with his shoulder. Marginally vindicated, I begin my strut down the hall, swishing my hips- if he's going to play hard to get, _I'm_ going to show him what he's missing. I toss a glare over my shoulder at him as I turn to exit into the stairwell, and he's not even _looking_ at me! He's fucking whistling, staring straight ahead at the elevator with the worlds _most_ aggravating smile stretched across his face.

I push through and sprint up the stairs, letting out a growl. I worry that someone might hear me, but it isn't enough to stop the boiling aggravation in my lungs. I storm into my office, shuffling through my daybook for something to distract me from how much I want to _pummel_ the _Joker._ I toss it aside upon finding that I'm completely caught up on paper work because of my two day workaholic binge, and I don't have any other sessions today, so pack my things.

I call Ash on my way out, and she agrees to meet me for dinner at some place she says is 'current'. I barely taste my food and I am a _horrible_ conversational companion- a fact she highlights liberally, and with considerable worry. I brush it off, chalking it up to a busy week, and she half accepts the excuse, allowing me to make my departure unquestioned. On the way home in the car, I sing at a deafening pitch until my throat is raw. I actually _do_ feel better when I get out at the garage- I was being _silly_ ; I was just a bit wound-up. _Sure_ I've got a crush, but I don't need to let it take over my _life_.

I loosen my tie in the elevator, catching sight of myself in the mirror, and I strike a pose. _I looked hot._ So did he, I mean _seriously-_ the elevator doors open and the air fills with music. A smile touches my lips in recognition- 'Love me with all of your heart', the bachelors cover. The optimistic, waltzing 60's ballade soars down the hall and I soar with it-this was a favourite of my Bubby's.

I didn't see her much growing up- I think mostly because of my mother's discomfort with her Jewish in-laws. But Bubby always wrote letters and I was always happy to write back. I told her I liked to dance, so she sent me her record collection- the _whole damn thing_ , mint Crosley Cruiser included. You wouldn't be _lieve_ the ass that thing got me in college.

Snapping out of my daze, I make my way towards my apartment, wondering who on my floor could possibly be listening to _this_ song at that _this_ volume. Maybe the geezer next door has a _lady_ friend over?

A few seconds later, ice shoots through my veins. I'm standing _right_ next to his door now and the sound is clearly not coming from the geezer's apartment.

It's coming from mine.


	12. Chapter 12

**Authors Note:** Back again! Thank you for all your love on the interim, you babes are the greatest.

Also warning, this chapter contains gore! Seriously, I got descriptive so tread carefully if you think that might bother you.

Plus, just a heads up I now have the rest of this fic planned out and there will be 17 chapters total, just to give you an idea of where we are relative to the end (which is a crazy thought, how have I been writing this long?). Not to worry though! It's just the end of part one, I already have plans for part two XD

This chapter is fairly eventful, but instead of talking about it now I'll just let you read,we can chit-chat later.

xoxo, Sewer Angel

 **Chapter 12:** A bullet for my valentine and other ways to woo a hybristophile

I freeze on the spot without noticing, heart rate hiking up as a sweat breaks out across my upper lip and over my palms. Someone is in my apartment. _Some_ one is in my _apart_ ment. It can't be him. It's not him- he's locked up tight. _Not that that's stopped him before…_ But I would have heard right? They would have called me the moment they'd finished counting the dead- it's protocol to notify a patients' primary physician immediately in case of a breakout.  
So it's _not_ him.

I can't _believe_ that's actually disappointing- apparently my survival instinct has been completely undermined by my raging libido, because who _act_ ually wants to find the Joker waiting for them in their apartment? Let's face it, the idiot probably trying to jack my sound system doesn't pose any threat whatsoever compared to my Mistah J. But what kind of thug breaks into someone's house and blasts 60's billboard hits? Maybe it's Selina, it wouldn't be the first time she broke it- then again I can't really imagine her picking _this_ particular song.

After a few minutes of dumbly standing outside my door like a room-service mark, I finally think about calling the cops. My hands don't move for my phone though- if it _is_ Selina, I don't want to send her to jail, and if somehow it turns out to be _him_ … well I definitely don't want to lose his already dubious trust. So I have to go in alone.

 _Whoo_. Ok.

I shake my arms out a little, like that's going to help me prepare for whatever's going on in there, and I pull a stray perfume sample from the bottom of my purse, thinking I might be able to use it like mace. Just before opening the door, I dig around for my cell- at the very least I can have 911 dialed and at the ready. I tap the home key, waiting for the screen to light up, but all I get is blackness and a little battery symbol telling me to plug it in.

 _Great, of all days..._ wait…dead phone means Arkham couldn't contact me if he got out, which means- My hands slam against the wood and I shove hard. Then my face smacks into it too, and I let out a choked cry as warmth gushes from my nose.

" _Fuck!_ " I growl. I really hope he hasn't heard any of this, although it doesn't really matter because my impatience is all over my face in red, and soon in purple and blue. Tentatively, I poke around, checking for breakage but it seems mostly ok so I go back to my bag for my keys. My eyes are watering heavily at the sharp sting in my nose, so it takes me too long to find them and when I do I can't get them in the lock fast enough. This time when I push forward the door actually opens, and I stumble into the wall of sound that bursts forth from my doorway, and-  
There's no one in the main room.

I rush back to my bedroom and- no one there either. I try not to feel too disappointed as I check my closet and my bathroom, and, unsurprisingly, I find them empty.

It was _stupid_ to think he would come here if he broke out. He'd have more pressing things to do like rounding up thugs or blowing up a mall or going to his goddamn tailor for all I know- but then what's with the _music_? I feel the worlds dopiest grin spread across my face because he _was_ here. It _had_ to be him, he just couldn't stay, that's all.  
He _likes_ me

My mood turns like a top, and I'm practically skipping back to the kitchen when my foot lands on something squishy, and my feet fly out from under me.

When I hit the ground, it only takes a second to realize that the something squishy is a human hand. I'd like to tell you I scream, kick it away, and _finally_ call the cops- you know, something _normal_ , but no siree, _not me_. Instead I get _closer_. Doctor brain kicks in, saying the hand likely belongs to an older male, that the blood loss would have killed him if the Joker didn't do it himself. Based on the stiffness, the owner has only been dead for a matter of hours, which means that it probably came from someone at Arkham.

I almost jump out of my skin when my landline cuts the music. Suppressing the illogical urge to hide from the phone, I rush to switch off the record player before I pick up.

"Hello?" I wince at my unintentionally guilty squeak.

"Harleen?" Leland's voice is raw and panicked on the other end. " Oh thank _god_ , when you didn't answer your cell I thought-"

"Joan, what's going _on_?" I ask urgently though I already know the answer, but I need to hear it out loud.

"The Joker broke out." Her voice is shaking and I can tell she's trying not to cry while I'm trying not to let my smile come through in my tone.

" _Oh my god-_ How? What the hell happened?"

There's a weighted sigh on the other end and I wonder just how many migraines she's had this week.

"We don't know yet. But he killed six guards and he- he _butch_ ered Finch…" For a woman who's seen a lot, she sounds awfully disturbed and I glance back at the hand with renewed interest. "Did he say _anything_ in session today that might have hinted he was planning to escape?"

I give a second to make it seem like I'm thinking hard.

"…I'm sorry Joan, no… Oh _god,_ I just- are you ok?"

"Well, I'm in one piece. " There's another sigh. "This isn't the first breakout I've lived through and I'm sure it wont be the last. If you think of anything, don't be afraid to contact me, all right? A police escort has been sent to watch your apartment as a precaution," I feel my expression sour at that- how the hell is he supposed to visit me _now?_ "They will likely have a few questions for you when they arrive, its just procedure."

"Of course, thank you _so_ much. Let me know if there is anything I can do to help."

"Thank you Harleen, stay safe." With that she hangs up. I glare at the hand, thinking that it might be a good idea to hide it before the cops turn up. _Stupid dreamy murder clown is going to get me arrested._

I rush over to the severed appendage, and I'm about to pick it up and stash it away when I realize that it had been quite strategically placed before I stepped on it. The index finger is pulled out straight while the others have been curled down and tucked under the thumb to point at a now fully erected fort. I feel a rush of warmth- he stayed long enough to finish building it for me!

I completely forget about the cops, crawling into the warm darkness. It takes my eyes a second to adjust, but I can tell that one of my dinner plates is sitting in the center of the small space; I just can't tell what's on it… I reach out, feeling like I'm in a haunted house, about to stick my hands in a bowl full of peeled grape eyeballs. When my fingers slide over something cold, slick, and ever so slightly mushy, I know I'm not touching a slab of steak.  
Holy fuck it's a _heart_.

I pick up the plate with a sense of elated horror that disgusts me, careful not to upset it as I crawl backwards into the light. Now that I can really see it, I realize that something thicker than blood is spilling from the hacked up aorta. Tiny, crystalline red beads... Pomegranate seeds. This heart is stuffed with pomegranate seeds.

I don't have time to think about what that means when I hear the harsh buzzer notifying me that someone's waiting to be let into the building. The panic sets in because the _police_ are downstairs and I'm sitting here with a fucking _heart_ in my lap. I grab the hand, shoving both body parts into my freezer, and I pray he didn't leave any more presents. I'm about to go buzz them in when I catch sight of the blood on my hands and the smear on my floor where I slipped on the hand. I trip over myself trying to get to the sink so I can wash my hands before attacking the floor with a wet piece of tissue paper which I stuff hastily into the trash.

A harsh jolt strikes my chest when they start knocking on my door- I mean jeez, couldn't they have had the decency to wait down _stairs?_ I reluctantly go for the door and open it to find two rather nervous looking officers standing on the other side. Their expressions go from bad to worse, and I remember my bloody nose. Throwing up my hands and inwardly cursing myself, I put on what I hope is a reassuring smile.

"Don't worry officers, it was my fault- damn door's always jumping out to hit me." I stage laugh, and step aside, waving them into my apartment. "Please, come in."

One of them lets out an awkwardly relieved chuckle because _really_ , if the Joker were here there isn't a thing they could do and they _know_ it, but they still follow me to the couch.

I turn back to the kitchen to make them coffee, explaining away the questionable fort as a remnant of a visit with a friend and her daughter, which seems to satisfy them. They ask me a few very basic questions, but I can tell the younger one is more interested in my ass than my answers, and the older one just wants to get out of here- its safe to say I'm _far_ from suspect. They give me a panic button and they assure me that a squad car will be posted outside for the next three days before _finally_ leaving me alone.

I lean back against the door with a shaky breath, and I feel myself go nearly limp as all that contrived tension leaves my body. Glancing back over at my fridge, I think for a moment that it must have been a dream because there is just _no_ way. This is _him_ we're talking about- since when did he start handing out valentines? I mean yes, it's an anatomically correct one, but still.

 _Love me with all of your heart…._

I giggle despite myself and pry open the freezer- no, definitely not a dream. I close the door mechanically, and turn to set the heart on the counter with shaking hands. He was here, he was _definitely_ here.

I'm full on beaming now, and I _know_ its wrong. I need to be logical about this, I need to make an objective analysis- this could be some kind of threat. How many times has he snuffed a psychiatrist after or _during_ a breakout? It's practically a bit at this point, and its not like a single cop car has ever deterred him before. Then again he doesn't usually leave a warning either… I pluck one of the tiny seed from the mess without noticing the resulting squelch, and it bursts as I roll it between my fingers. _Pomegranate_ seeds… _Oh!_ The pomegranate _,_ the fruit of the dead.

The fruit that bound Persephone to Hades.

 _Well,_ he certainly could be called king of the underworld, but I am _far_ from a goddess. That's not what this is about though, _no_ , this isn't a compliment, its an _invitation_. My heart is pounding and my palms are sweating, and I wonder If I'm going to pass out but _some_ how it feels amazing. So amazing that I nearly miss the small bit of flooded paper sitting on the side of the plate. I pluck up it by a corner, and an Arkham keycard clatters out onto the floor. When I bend down to pick it up I realize its _mine_.

 _Shit_ \- the hug.

My stomach clenches at the thought that he might not have hugged me because he _want_ ed to- but then why would he have gone to the trouble of giving back the keycard? There wouldn't have been _reason_ to unless he wanted to keep me around. Each card has the holders name and I.D number written on it, but the system doesn't record any information other than the clearance level. So, unless I had to report my keycard missing, no one would be able to tell that it was the one that was used in the escape. He's _protecting_ me!

Feeling significantly better, I toss the card into the sink and turn back to the note. Under dried brown bloodstains is a scrawl in purple crayon that I recognize instantly, swirling, off kilter and jagged. Despite the gnawing inside me I have to admit it's a beautiful script.

 _I thought about giving you_ my _heart but it seemed too traditional,_

 _So here's Finchy's! I think he would pair well with a white wine._

 _Enjoy!_

 _P.S. Thanks for the key, Cupcake, it fit quite nicely._

 _-J_

A jag of giddy laughter escapes me and I cover my mouth with a freshly bloodied hand. He stole my key to escape, killed a warden he'd seen sleazing on me, and _then_ left said wardens heart and hand as an offering of thanks for the favour!  
It's kinda sweet in a twisted way.

My body whips into a series of delirious twirls through the kitchen. Clutching the note to my chest, I skip over to the record player and flip it back on, moving the needle back to the start. I feel drunk as I dance around my apartment, and I can't believe he was _here…_ I try to picture him in the space- how did he get here? Did he steal a uniform or was he still in his jumpsuit? How _long_ was he here _?_ Long enough to rebuild the fort, position the body parts, he probably stuffed the heart here… and where the _hell_ did he get the pomegranate?

I run my fingers over the waxy violet streaks that scar the paper, and I wonder if maybe he might come back. With that faint possibility in mind, I put on my _cute_ pajamas- he doesn't need to see me in a moth-bitten tweety bird shirt with coffee stains down the front. I'm not really sure how to feel because I don't know if I'm waiting for him, if I'm being naïve or if he's actually going to show up. If he does he'll be _real_ , in the flesh, unrestrained and unmonitored- except by me of course. Don't worry; I'm not naïve enough to think that counts for anything.  
But the thought doesn't bother me either.

I set to worrying about how much time he might have spent looking around my shithole apartment- even if he didn't find any of my un _mentionables_ , this place isn't exactly impressive. It's not that it's small or that the appliances are dated- it's that it has no _character_. This place is bleached and bone dry, functionally mundane. I didn't think I would be staying so _long_ when I first moved in… funny how you can get stuck places.

I feel like I'm about to cry again because it has been a _really_ long day and it seems like it's about that time, but then I see my fort.

 _My_ fort that _he_ helped to rebuild.

I scramble in to curl up on the downy nest, and find that it smells faintly of blood- not enough to be off putting though, and it's so _warm_ in here… I mush my face into the pillow and I catch just a hint of that piney Arkham soap. Somehow it almost feels like I'm hugging _him_ instead of a bag of feathers.

I wonder what it might be like just to hold him, and I wonder where he is right now, if he's safe. I think about how cold it's been, and I hope that he stole some extra clothes because he doesn't have much body fat and those jumpsuits don't have a lot of insulation. I wonder where he'll sleep tonight, and I worry that he'll be uncomfortable- that is I do until I remember his severe insomnia, which is unrelenting even when he's medicated. I switch to worrying about how little he'll sleep, the _state_ he'll be in when they bring him in- my Puddin's a real slugger, but it tends to get him hurt. I choke out something that exists uncomfortably between sobbing and laughter, and I try to picture him here in my fort instead.

I like that _much_ better.

With the smell of him on my pillow and a lullaby about a snake, sleep is an easy embrace.

Unlike the first time I passed out in a fort, I actually manage to sleep through the night, and when I wake, I'm filled with the kind of peppy exuberance that even _I_ can tell is disgusting. I devour a breakfast of fruit loops and coffee before going through some of Selina's routines. The activity helps to soothe my jitters but my mind is still racing at an uncomfortable pace, so I blast Madonna and I take a hot shower.

When I get out, I position myself in front of the TV, and yes, I might be waiting a _little_ bit. I go straight to the news, and he's all over it. They've got grainy black and white footage of his escape from Arkham surveillance, a jubilant monster cutting his way out of the asylum. He looks ecstatic dancing around nightsticks and Tasers, leaping over bodies as he clicks his heels.

He looks _mag_ nificent.

They don't show the footage from Finches' office. Apparently it was deemed too disturbing, which isn't surprising given the little trophies he left me. I can't help but laugh when a confounded reporter declares what was stolen, but then I really start thinking about those _trophies._

I _definitely_ need to get rid of them- the heart I can cut up and send down the garburator, but the hand is going to be more of a challenge… _I can't believe this is a serious thought_. I mean yeah, who _ha_ _sn't_ imagined what they would do if they had to get rid of a body? It just turns out that trying to figure it out for real is a lot more stressful, and the jitters are starting to come back so I put my self to work.

I retrieve the heart from the freezer so I can chop it up, only to remember that it will have to thaw. Grumbling at my lack of foresight, I stick the thing in the microwave, and I stare at the red knot of muscle as it spins round and round…

It's hard reconcile this disembodied organ with the fact that it once sat in someone's chest- Warden Finches' chest. I didn't want him to _die_ … but he was annoying, and _creepy,_ and… I guess I didn't care if he lived either.

I stop the microwave when the smell starts to get to me, donning a pair of rubber gloves before scooping up my former bosses' ticker. It's definitely thawed, even cooked in some places. Feeling oddly detached, I plop it down on my cutting board, select a nice sharp knife, and set to shredding the mangled mound of cardiac tissue. When I'm done, I stuff it into the garburator and I flip it on. A satisfying metallic whir fills my ears as I watch the remains disappear, e _asy peasy_.

I start to giggle because _seriously_ \- I just disposed of a _human_ heart! It's probably kind of tasteless to say this, but I feel like a badass.

Next I tackle the hand. Given my resources, I think the best option is to remove the meat and pulverize the bone so I can flush it. So I fill up a pot of water, I stick it on the stove, and I drop in the hand. Then I wait.

I'll admit; some of my heart-shredding bravado has dissipated. A nagging doubt takes root in my stomach and I start to check the pot obsessively, cringing each time because I _really_ just want this to be over now. A hand seems so much more _human_ than a heart… Maybe it _is_ what's on the outside that counts.

I try not to laugh at that because it seems inappropriate- but then I think about how _ridiculous_ it is to stop yourself from laughing in your _own_ home. Why shouldn't I laugh? _It feels good._

"Ha! _HA-HA!"_

It's almost a chant, angry until the sounds become absurd in repetition, and then it's real and uncontrollable. Somehow I end up on the ground, clutching at myself like I've been gutted, and when I notice a smear of crusty blood on the floor next to me, I laugh even harder knowing it must have been here since yesterday when the cops came. I laugh until I ache and I don't stop until I'm gasping for air, and even then I keep losing myself to rogue bouts of giggling.

Somehow I manage to get back on my feet to check the pot of hand, and thus begins a good forty-five minutes of wrestling with stubborn tendon and fascia. It doesn't matter that I'm wearing rubber gloves, because there's blood and tissue in my hair and on my face and I think there _might_ be some in my mouth but I'm trying not to think about that for now. Eventually I give up, tossing the soft stuff into the garburator and putting the thin bones in the oven to dry them out.

I feel like a regular Martha Stewart. _Ha_.

While I'm waiting, I hop into the shower again so I can wash off the gore, singing Britney to drown out any uneasy thoughts. I keep expecting to have a breakdown- doctor brain says that I have experienced things that should be causing me serious psychological trauma, but I feel _fine_.

Don't get me wrong; the numbness is _refreshing_ \- I just can't help waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I blank out my misgivings with a meat tenderizer and a sandwich bag of bones, and I feel _great_ when I finally flush the resulting powder. When I'm done I toss the gloves, then scour anything that came into contact with my gifts, and soon it's like there was never a hand cooking on my oven top.

I plop myself down on the couch and turn on the TV, mostly because it seems like the normal thing to do- of course, 'normal' is relative at this point. I'm expecting to space out completely, because I have no idea how anything could hold my attention after _that,_ and I do at first- that is, I do until I flip over to the GCNN.

I recognize the face on screen immediately, even though I only knew it for one night. I recognize the ostentatiously retro pompadour, the hazel eyes that stare mockingly up from a poorly enhanced cast photo and I want to hide. _Oh god, Tavis what happened?_

Its not like I don't already know.

"27 year old Tavis Feste was found dead last night in the alley behind Gotham Grande Theater-"

There's a beat before the statement sinks in, and when it does, it hits like a mallet. All of the air is crushed from my chest as my ribs force my lungs flat, and I can't move. Someone is _dead_ because of me, someone I kind of knew, someone I _liked…_ I swear my body rips apart with the simultaneous feelings of sinking into concrete and being flung into the sky. _He_ killed Tavis, in the alley where we kissed. _He_ killed him because of _me…_

 _J_ is for _jealous._

 _"_ HA!" It's less laughter, more smug vindication, but now I _know_.

 _I'm not the only one with a crush._ I'm not sure why it took a _murder_ for me to be sure, but come _on_ he's the _Joker!_ It's not like there's a precedent for this- I'm improvising _._

"Although a Joker card was found on the body, it seems unlikely that the killing was committed by the Joker himself."

I feel my face fall as the screen switches from the ken doll anchor to a rumpled Harvey Bullock. The contrast is glaring.

"It just ain't his style-" Shrugs the haggard detective. "I mean don't get me wrong, the poor guy was stabbed eight times _,_ but there wasn't any eh… for lack of a better word, _funny_ business, y'know? We're either lookin' at one of the Jokers henchmen, or we got a copycat. That's all." He growls and pushes away the camera. I switch off the TV and chuck the remote across the room.

What the fuck does _that_ mean- he sent someone _else_ to kill Tavis? I've _seen_ him jealous; he once single handedly slaughtered an entire warehouse of Falcone thugs over a stolen arms shipment. An arms shipment gets a personal blood bath, and _I_ get a hired gun? I mean _really_ , could his signals be any more mixed?!

Well, I'm _certainly_ not going to wait around for him anymore. I'm going to go out and do something _fun_ , and if he happens to stop by and I'm not home, then _too bad for him._

I don't want to talk to Ash about Tavis, and she'll definitely ask, so cross that off the list for now… I could go roof running but I don't feel like it would be enough of a distraction. I could train with Selina but I need something _new…_ Not that I don't have anything left to learn, but I've been getting good _,_ good enough that I'm not scared anymore. Good enough to fight and _win_ \- against someone less skilled than Selina, of course- but still, she sets the bar high!

I know she doesn't like calls, but I dial her number anyways and put the phone up to my ear because my begging isn't quite as effective over text. I'm almost surprised when she actually answers.

"Hello?" She already sounds annoyed, which is fine because its inevitable.

"Hey Kitty, how ya doin?" I chirp.

" _Harley_ \- why do you sound like that?" I can almost picture her in what I'm sure is a _very_ chic apartment, arms crossed and grumbling into the receiver like the sourpuss she is. The image makes me giggle. _No wonder she gets along with the bat._

"It's a good day! Why not? And also I was thinkin, I've gotten a _lot_ better since we started training, right?"

"… _Yeah_ …"

"So you think I'm ready for The Aviary?" I scrunch my eyes shut and cross my fingers.

" _Ab_ solutely not." _Shit._ Its ok, I expected pushback.

"Seriously," I reassert. "I can kick ass- you _know_ I can! And the more time I spend fighting _there_ , the less time _you_ have to waste with me-"

"You don't know shit about that place, ok? You know why I was fighting there, Harls? Because I owed a _favor_ , and when you owe a favor to the man who owns The Aviary, it's not smart to _cop out_. Do you under _stand_ me?" Her tone is so patronizing that I want to jump through the phone and throttle her, but I settle for kicking my sofa. "These are dangerous people-"

"I _know_ dangerous people, Selina. I work with them _every_ _single_ _day_ \- you know I treated Ed Nygma? I did Victors Zsasz's intake exam. Oh, and up until yesterday I was the Joker's primary physician. This is my _life._ I'm not here to _fuck_ _around_. I'm not scared, and I am _not_ a _weakness_."

There's silence on the other end for a moment, and I'm scared that I went too far-

"…I forget you work at Arkham sometimes."

 _Bingo_! That's a Selina apology.

" I can do this, I'm _ready_ -"

"And if I don't get you in you'll just go alone, right?" The entire sentence is somehow contained within a single sigh.

"You gotcha-" I grin. "So how do we do this?"

"You're _incredibly_ annoying, did you know that?"

"Yeah, yeah. I've heard it before- _come_ _on_ sensei, gimme the _juice_! How do I get a black-belt?" I'm bouncing at this point, because the cat is in the bag _._ I'm gonna join a fight club!

"You can't just sign up." She grumbles. " _I'm_ going to have to talk to Cobblepot, for you. I can't guarantee _any_ thing, and if you get hurt, it is _not_ my fault. For the record I still think this is a _horrible_ idea."

"Ok, _mom_ , I _get_ it, where do I meet you?

"Across from the Iceberg, bring something you can fight in. Thirty minutes."

"Thank you Kitty! I'll see you ther-" She's already hung up.

I zip off to my room and put on a pair of dark jeans and the motorcycle jacket Ash lent me over a red tank top, adding a scarf when I catch sight of the now blue-green bruises on my neck. I pack a bag with a pair of leggings, a sports bra, and my sneakers just in case, and I rush out the door.

I end up being 10 minutes early, standing awkwardly across from the club and contemplating grabbing a coffee to waste time. Ultimately, I decide I don't want to give myself the jitters so I settle for hiding in the alley beside the coffee shop.

When I finally spot Selina making her approach, I head out of my shadow to meet her. She wears a black bomber jacket over a strangely appropriate grumpy cat t-shit and a pair of tight grey cargo pants. Her short chestnut hair is half tucked behind her ear while the rest falls into her golden-brown eyes.

"Why were you hiding in that alley?" She asks with a skeptical brow. _Shit._

"I came from there." I assert. She opens her mouth and then closes it, shaking her head.

"Ok. _Anyway_ , come on." She rolls her eyes but she's got half a smile as she leads me across the street and around the side of the club. She knocks on a side door- just a normal knock, no secret pattern, which is kind of disappointing. The door opens to reveal a burly man in a suit who seems to recognize Selina well enough to wave her through without question. I follow her into a long hall with sconce lighting and deep violet walls, and we enter an old-fashioned elevator, taking it to the very top.

We step out into a plush waiting room with stripped wallpaper and black leather furniture. A woman in a snug pin-stripe skirt suit and pair of black patent pumps stands from a mahogany desk. She saunters towards us, and Selina nods at one of the two men that flank the elevator while I subdue the urge to fiddle with the zipper of my jacket.

"Cat, we weren't expecting you." The woman pauses in front of us, propping a well manicured hand on her hip, and giving me a pointed look.

"Good to see you too, Trixie." Selina gives Trixie a fabricated smile and Trixie sneers back. "This is Harley. "

She turns on me, showing too much tooth for her empty eyes.

" _Har_ ley, it's a _plea_ sure." She offers me a hand, looking me up and down. I give her an awkward sideways high-five instead, looking her right in the eye.

"Hiya Tricks." My voice is bubblegum but my smile is quinine, and _Tricks_ looks like she's sucking on a lemon. If I'm not mistaken, I catch Selina grinning in the periphery

" _Mhm-"_ She makes a point of turning away from me. "Unfortunately, Mr. Cobblepot doesn't take unscheduled meetings. I'd be happy to set up an appointment for you-"

Selina crosses her arms and tips her chin up.

"Cut the shit, you know he doesn't expect _me_ to make appointments. Is he in with someone?"

Trixie huffs.

" _No_ , but he'-"

Selina pushes past the disgruntled assistant, and I try to follow but she stops me with a hand.

"Uh-uh, you stay here."

"But-" I start, working up a whine.

"Harley, _stay_." This time it's a hiss, and I stop in my tracks while Selina makes her way through the large double doors across the room.

"Ozzie!" She exclaims as she crosses the threshold, and the doors slam shut behind her. This is the moment I realize I've been locked out here with bitchy Trixie and her guard dogs. Luckily for me, Trixie has decided to ignore me, strutting back to her desk and pretending to be busy while shooting me a series of increasingly acidic glares. _Seriously,_ who peed in _her_ rice crispies?

I size up the guards, trying to decide whether or not it would be a bad idea to try and strike up a conversation with them, but one of them actually _grunts_ at me when I smile at him. Naturally, I end up positioning myself outside the double doors to wait for Selina like a child in a dentist's office. I mean I _do_ wish there were some toys for me to play with, or at least a magazine or something…

I start counting the tiles on the floor, and by the time I get to one-hundred and sixty-three I'm so focused that I jump when the doors open behind me. I barely have time to turn before Selina's grabbed my arm and pulled me aside. I watch the doors close over her shoulder and for a second I'm worried that he said no, and I almost start to mope but she hold up a finger to stop it.

"He'll talk to you." She rolls her eyes as I swallow a squeal. " _No_ guarantees."

"Got it." Im bitting hard on the insides of my cheeks to try and retain some composure but I'm beaming anyways.

"And- just be polite, ok? He has a thing about respect."

"Of course, your graciousness!" I giggle with a curtsy.

"Jesus." Mutters Selina as she rubs her forehead, and I wait to follow her lead, but after a moment she gives me an exasperated look. " Well, _go on_!" She gives me a gentle push towards the doors, and for the first time I realize she intends to send me in alone.

 _Shit_. Ok, ok, I can do this. I've read a bit about this guy, I can handle it. I've handled worse, right?

 _Go get em' cupcake_.

I whip around because that was _not_ my voice in my head. Finding the source of that voice to be absent as expected, I sigh, because Trixie is now staring at me like I've sprouted an extra head and Selina looks like she's about to strangle me. So I turn back to the imposing doors, and I walk through.

I step into a massive office that manages to be dimly lit despite the three thickly curtained floor-to-ceiling windows that make up the back wall. The other walls are lined with stuffed bookshelves hewn in dark wood. The floor is a shining mosaic of black and purple tiles, disappearing beneath a massive white marble desk that dominates the empty space between two plump leather armchairs.

The man standing behind the desk faces away, perhaps watching over the street below his club. He is slightly below average height, and his pristine tailcoat hangs down from sloped shoulders. He turns to face me slowly, revealing dark hair streaked with gray, smartly slicked back of course. His tux is complete in black and white with a cumberbund and an ascot, and with his sharp, beak-like nose and his short stature, I can see where the nickname comes from.

His mouth curls into a pleasant smile but I can clearly see that he's assessing me, so I smile back and I stride forward to offer my hand.

"Pleased to meetcha Mr. Cobblepot, thanks so much for your time an' consideration." I make a snap decision to let my accent come out- I've got a feeling it might work in my favour.

"Harleen, it is an absolute de _light-_ any friend of Selina is a friend of mine." I try not to raise a sceptical eyebrow, nodding instead. His words are confident and tinted with something ever so slightly aristocratic- just enough to make you stand up straight, which I suspect is intentional. "Please, take a seat." He gestures to one of the two armchairs and takes his own seat behind the massive desk. I follow his lead, watching carefully though I try not to be obvious about it.

Oswald Cobblepot- another master manipulator. I wait to feel the fear that I should, but it's not there- I guess when you start with the top the rest _have_ to flop.

"You're _cute_." He says. "And please, miss Quinzel, don't think that I mean to seduce you." He laughs, like the thought is absolutely ridiculous and I should _pro_ bably be offended, but I'm more interested in finding out where he's going with this. "My intentions are of purely professional nature; I think you've got a certain… star _quality_. You've got an _innocence_ about you- and it's been brought to my attention that you're not too shabby in the ring." He nods respectfully _._ His voice is like oil that coats your ear as it passes through so that he can stay there whispering. It doesn't sound like Mr J's, not like a knife to you throat- more like there _might_ be poison in your tea. _I like him._

And I _really_ want to get into the ring. So I smile nice and big- _innocent it is_.

"Thanks mister, it's a real honour!" I gush- more flies with honey, right? The Penguin claps twice, fingertips against palm.

"Smart girl! _You're already playing the part_. If you keep it up you'll do well here. The crowd _wants_ a surprise- a little thing like you walking into the ring? Now _that's_ entertainment." The end of the word is drawn out as he leans back in his chair, hands resting on the overstuffed burgundy arms. His head slightly as he considers me. "Do you gamble, miss Quinzel?" He asks, and my eyebrows pinch at the unexpected question.

"Not unless you count the claw game at the arcade." This garners a good-natured chuckle, and I grin.

"Not so, my dear. Of _course_ you gamble- what is life if not a long, arduous game of blackjack? I myself have been playing for a very long time and I must admit, I've gotten very good. The problem with being a good gambler is that the act loses its excitement- you stop taking risks because you know how to avoid them. So sometimes you've just _got_ to take a bet you aren't sure about, just to keep things fresh. Today, I think that bet is you." His expression is still polite, his smile harmless, but there's a calculating light igniting his near-black eyes.

"I'm not sure I follow, Mr. Cobblepot? I really am serious about fightin here-"

"Oh, I don't doubt it for a second. But my club runs like clockwork, you see, and it does so because I take _care_ to inspect and polish the gears before adding them to the works. Now, I could take the time to send you to my trainer for evaluation before putting you in, but I've grown bored lately. I'd like to watch a fight with real stakes. Can you _fight_ , Miss Quinzel?"

I nod eagerly, trying not to levitate out of my chair because I'm in, I'm freakin _in_. Cobblepot's eyes narrow as his smile widens, thinning his lips.

" _Good_." He leans forward again. "You'll be the _shrike."_ He splays his fingers on the smooth surface beneath them with a conspiratorial smile."No larger than a robin," He tips his head with a quirk of an eyebrow. "No more intimidating than a sparrow... But you'd do well not to underestimate a shrike- or you might end up _skewered_ as a _snack_ for later." He purrs, making a steeple of his fingers.

 **"** I like it." I return with my sunniest grin. "I like it a _lot_."

"Yes. Well, we'll see if you live up to it, wont we?" The steeple collapses and he laces his fingers as I do my best to hold back a sharp glare- _Yeah_ , I think, _We'll see_. Luckily he appears oblivious the slight souring of my expression, already moving on to scribble a short note on a thick piece of stationary.

"If you do happen to win a match, you'll be given a cut of the bets. If you loose, you get nothing- agreeable?"

"Yes sir!" I reply with a little salute.

"Have Selina take you to see Rosie, she'll take care of your costume and weaponry-" _Costume?_ "And please give her this for me." He hands me the note, framing his words as a question though they are undeniably a command. I stand, tucking the paper into my pocket and reaching forward to shake his hand yet again.

"Thanks again, Mister Cobblepot- I appreciate the opportunity, sir, and I _won't_ let you down." The crime boss lets me jerk his hand emphatically around in the air with an obliging chuckle.

"I hope to be seeing you soon, lady shrike." I do a quick curtsy at my new employer who returns a sage nod before I turn to skip out the door.

Selina releases a relieved sigh when I pop out on the other side, but her expression quickly takes a turn for annoyance when she catches the smug exhilaration on my face.

"Presenting the shrike!" I exclaim, throwing my hands up above my head and striking a pose without regard for Trixie or the Guards.

" _Je_ sus Christ." Groans my companion, wiping a hand over her face. "I am not calling you that. And _calm down_." She growls, grabbing my arm to drag me to the waiting elevator. I roll my eyes and allow her to pull me along, lagging only slightly to piss her off.

"We ain't done yet kit-kat, I gotta see a lady about a costume." Selina snorts.

"You know you're using all the patience I had save up for the month, right?"

"Pleeeeaaaaase?" I put on my best puppy dog eyes.

Selina shakes her head and jabs the basement level button with more force than strictly necessary, mumbling something about how this is why she never wanted kids.

Rosie turns out to be a very old woman- as in she could be 90 or she could be 900, I really couldn't tell you. Her silver hair is like a birds nest after a storm and her skin is like olive toned parchment, but she moves around her basement workshop with the energy and the agility of a teen, whipping her burnt orange mumu out of her way as she comes to greet us.

"Sweetpea!" She exclaims, her voice unexpectedly harsh from years of cigarette smoke as she wraps Selina in a tight hug, which I'm surprised to see is reciprocated. My usually grumpy feline friend even lets the older woman smooth down her perpetually unruly pixie cut, and I try not to gawk when she gives her a genuine smile.

"How are you, Rose- Ozzie's not working you too hard is he?"

"I'd be betta if you came to visit me every once and a while!" Rosie throws up her hands, unruly white brows pushing up to the paisley scarf she's got wrapped around her head. "You know I'm very old, any day now I could bite the biscuit." She crows, and Selina rolls her eyes.

"Somehow, I think you'll outlast us all." Returns kitty with a wry smile. The older woman only shakes her head before turning to me with a warm grin full of mildly yellowed teeth.

" Manners, deary" She barks at Selina, who actually appears cowed, if only marginally. "Aren't you going to introduce your friend?"

Selina shoots me a dirty look, like _I_ brought this on her, but she waves an arm in my direction none the less.

"Rosie, this is Harley, Ozzies' newest recruit." I'm already grinning, about to offer my hand when suddenly I'm being crushed against the elder's deceptively ponderous bosom.

"Harley! Such a _love_ ly name, best kind of motorcycle- lets get you measured, yes?" As suddenly as she embraced me, Rosie releases me and pushes me towards a long wooden worktable bearing an industrial sewing machine, endless bobbins of thread, and a stack of handmade patterns. Pulling a measuring tape from around her neck, she start the process, which, thanks to Ash, I'm very familiar with. Rose complements me copiously on being a good little model and shoots glares at Selina over her shoulder, grumbling about how she _might_ be able to get her into something nice if only she would stand still.

Once I've been sized up, I finally remember to pass on Ozzie's note and Rose pockets it, thanking me and picking up a worn notebook to jot down my measurements. Selina strikes up a conversation with the elderly seamstress, and though I try to pay attention I am quickly distracted by the cluttered space around me, wandering away from the grown-ups to explore.

The workshop is a veritable treasure trove, filled to bursting with only thin aisles of cleared floor space to walk through. Racks on racks of costumes are stacked against the far wall, everything from a double-breasted suit to mechanics coveralls to a fringed flapper dress. There are a few dress mannequins displaying pieces at various stages of completion, and peeking around the rows of racks I find what appears to be a small armoury stocked with everything but guns. Seriously, _everything_ \- there's a godamn mace here! Long spears with blades of various shapes and sizes, bats wrapped in barbed wire, chains, whips, nunckucks and even an apparently innocuous cane. _Rosie you kinky grandma…_

"Ooh!" the little coo escapes me as my hands move of their own volition to grasp the smooth wooden handle of what must be the worlds largest mallet- just like the kind from bugs bunny, except better because this ones painted white with big red stars on the business end. I can't imagine who must have used this because it looks like it weighs a few hundred pounds, but I want to try and lift it all the same, so I squat, bracing the handle on my thigh and taking a deep breath.

"Heave-ho!" I chirp, throwing my whole body into it. Of course I'm not expecting results, so when the hammer flies up with the momentum of my effort I'm entirely unprepared and I tumble, the weight of it throwing me back into the racks, which come crashing down around me. A hanger jams itself between my shoulder blades as I hit the floor, and I let out a rather un-lady like squawk, shoving the hammer off my chest so I can sit up and assess whether or not I've broken my spine. The pain only drowns out the laughter for a few seconds, and I managed to get to my feet on the power of sheer embarrassment.

"I'm fine in case anyone was wondering!" I snap, sending Selina into a fresh round of cackles while Rosie sobers, moving forward to pat me sympathetically on the arm.

"I see you've met strongman." Chuckles the older woman, lifting the hammer with surprising ease and handing it over. "I had him made a few years back but he never got into the ring." She sighs as I test out the weight for a second time. The weapon does have some heft but I find I can manoeuvre it easily.

"How is he so light?"

She plants her gnarled knuckles on her hips, a crooked grin spreading on her face.

"Sneaky, isn't it? He's hollow on the inside but the ends are weighted to give him power on the swing- do you like him?"

I'm still staring at the hammer as I nod, tracing the red stars that adorn it.

"Well." She chirps, raising a bushy brow. "Maybe he'll finally get some action."

We say our goodbyes, and I leave Rosie my number so she can call me to arrange a fitting. I'm feeling good until we start down the hall that leads to the exit and I remember the Schrödinger box that's become my apartment. If the cat's dead I'll be pretty disappointed, but if he's alive…. I honestly don't know what I'll do.

"Hey Kitty, wanna get a drink?" I cringe upon realizing how desperate I sound, but my nerves outweigh any threat to my dignity.

"No."

"How about a burger?" My dignity is now non-existent.

"No."

"You don't like burgers? We could do Italian- or Indian? Thai?"

"I'm not hungry." She snaps, picking up the pace. I stick my lower lip out so far I'm afraid it might trip me.

"Ok, well what about a movie? Or we could-"

"No!" She snaps, whipping her head in my direction and sending me a withering look. This time the rejection smarts and I feel my throat constrict. Selina seems to catch my dejection and her expression softens momentarily. "I have things to do." She clarifies, gluing her eyes to the door as she pushes it open.

"Ok. " I mumble, staring at my shoes. The wind hits me hard as I step out and I tug my jacket around me, finding that the temperature has dropped significantly since I was last outside. Selina pauses, biting her lip as she watches me, and I can tell she feels at least marginally guilty but she isn't going to change her mind so I don't feel any better.

"Haveasafewalkhome." The sentence shoots out between her lips as a single word. Before I have time to respond she's speed walking away, and I'm left to stand in the darkening alley all by my lonesome.

 _Figures_.

I consider taking the train home, but as chilled as I am, I dread actually getting there so I decide to walk. Which is basically the worst decision a woman can make in Gotham on a Saturday night.

A few blocks into my trek I seriously regret wearing a jacket this thin. The fabric is so cold that it feels wet, forcing Goosebumps and clenching my muscles. Hoping for some shelter from the wind, I turn down an alley. Which is the second worst decision a woman can make in Gotham on a Saturday night- I mean _yeah_ , I might get murdered, but at least I wont freeze to death right?

Wind isn't the only thing that two walls can cut though, and it's shocking how little noise I can hear from the street. Idly I wonder if anyone out there would even hear my screams, but the thought doesn't turn me back and I allow the clack of my heels against the concrete to fill my ears. The sound becomes metronomic, lulling me into a strange trance. So when another set of footsteps joins mine, I am hyper aware that the shiver running down my back has nothing to do with the cold.

 _I'm in the city, lots of people take alley way short cuts. It's probably fine._ And yes, I know that's a stupid rationalization. I focus on matching my pace to theirs and a cold sweat breaks out on my palms when they start to speed up.

 _Well, this certainly isn't going anywhere good._

I could turn around, face them- it's probably the last thing they would expect, but I don't have a weapon and I'd be more than willing to bet they do. I could start screaming, try to attract some attention and convince them that I'm more work than I'm worth- but in this city no one would bat an eye. _Ha_. _Bat- where is he when you need him?_

When my backstreet companion suddenly breaks into a run I toss my deliberation out the window and go for instinct, breaking into a sprint. I can see the opening of the alley but it's too far away and they're gaining on me- I can hear them panting now. They're on my heels, the clamour of footfalls is deafening and I'm breathing so hard I think my throat might be bleeding _-_

 _CRACK-_

There's a vicious pain echoing from the back of my head, and I'm on the ground but I don't remember falling. Sickening fireworks explode across the backs of my eyelids and my blood turns to molasses, pinning me down. I grit my teeth, finding strength in the cold concrete at my palms as I try to push myself up. I manage to get to my knees and I'm wondering why they're just standing there watching me struggle when a heavy boot connects with my side. I roll twice, going blind as I'm floored again, sprawling and swallowing vomit as I try to push myself up once more- _fuck this guy if he thinks I'm going to die on my back._ My assailant calmly plants his boot square on my chest and pushes down, pressing the air from my lungs.

"Not begging yet? Don't worry, we'll fix that." His voice sounds like wet gravel, and I force my eyes open to see the man squatting over me. I can't see one of him for the life of me, but he smells like sweat and gasoline, and his grizzled face is mostly hidden in shadow. He pressing something cold and hard to my cheek- I instinctively flinch away from the Glock in his grip.

"There, isn't that better?" He growls, one hand coming to my cheek to push my face back toward the gun. His yellowed fingers smell of stale cigarettes and when he brushes one over my lower lip, I snap, bitting down hard.

"Bitch!" He snarls, yanking his bloodied thumb away and before I have a chance to try and shove his foot off my chest, the muzzle of his 45. connects with my cheek bone. My other cheek smacks into the ground as my head whips to the side with the force, and I feel the battered flesh burst as blood blossoms at the surface. He grabs me by the jaw, calloused fingers digging in as he shoves the butt of his gun back against the swelling skin.

"You know I was going to make this easy, sweetheart? Pretty little piece like you… seems a shame not to have some fun, doesn't it?" He's leaned in so close I feel like I might choked on his breath. He draws back a bit but my relief is short-lived as he uses his hold on my jaw to slam the back of my head into the concrete. The world tilts horribly and I swear my brain is pounding against the inside of my skull. The pain hits me like a bucket of ice water and suddenly I feel achingly awake. I am _so_ tired of being played with.

I let my self go limp, releasing a very real groan as my arms flop out to the side and very slowly, I let my hands explore the ground. I have to swallow my grin when my fingers brush something wooden, and wrap around it. I cough up some of the blood that I've been swallowing, laughing as it dribbles out the corners of my mouth, and for a second the roaches' priggish grin falters.

Then I swing like I'm going for a home run.

I throw my whole body into it, trying not to pass out as the unforgiving turf grinds into the bruise blossoming on my side, but the feeling of my makeshift bat connecting with the side of his head makes it all worthwhile. I don't have enough strength to put him on his ass, but it's enough to make him grunt and stumble, and I can finally take a full breath as his boot lifts off my chest.

My knees jar against the ground as I scramble to my feet, swinging my bat again before I've straightened my legs. This time he throws up his arms and a scarlet flower bursts like undeserved stigmata on the palm of his hand when I pull away. He's livid now, roaring at me though I can't hear a word, and he throws a punch with his uninjured hand. I mean to dodge but my reflexes are slowed and there's a loud pop in my jaw that preludes another surge of agony and vertigo. My brainstem lights up like a nuclear reactor, blood feeding synapses like jet fuel, and something _cracks_ as my back hits the wall behind me.

I snap my head back to look at my assailant through a now blood-plastered veil of hair.

"I am _not_ Barbie _."_ I hiss, irony spittle polka-dotting the air between us.

" _Wha-?"_ Its all he gets out before I swing again, this time catching him in the temple. He goes down like a hijacked plane.

"I AM _NOT_ A TOY, _DO YOU HEAR ME?"_ New heat swells in my body, pumping the violent hydraulics in my arms; I keep swinging, over and over as the pathetic body at my feet curls into a ball. I feel the crush of muscle and bursting vessels, the hard splintering of bone and he's saying something- begging or crying maybe, but I can't hear a thing over the _blissful_ roaring in my ears.

Hot, wet droplets spatter my face and cool quickly in the nocturnal air, waking my flesh and turning the world to some sort of brilliant, gruesome cartoon in black and red. At some point he stops moving, but I don't know when because I'm still swinging.

Then there's a particularly satisfying crunch, and a soggy resistance before a suctioned pop as my bat pulls free, and something sticky-stringy like bubble gum hits my chin.

This when I realize that the face staring up at me is no longer recognizable, that the parietal bone is tilted like a sinking ocean liner, dipping into eviscerated brain matter and pouring pulpy vermillion syrup. All that escaping blood pools out beneath him like _beautiful_ red butterfly wings, unfurling as the heat beats out of his body.

 _Holy shit._

This is when I notice the gory nail protruding from the business end of my bat, which turns out to be a chair leg. The implement falls from my hand and I flinch back into the brick of the building behind me as it clatters on the ground, splashing his puddle onto my boots. Fuck. _FUCK.  
_ _I just killed somebody._

I don't know how to clean this up! I can't just _carry_ him home- _I just killed somebody!_ I freeze when an impish giggle pierces the decaying silence, and for a second I think this is it, I'm going to jail- I'm going to _Arkham_.

Then I realize the sound came from _me_. _I_ just killed someone, and now I'm _laughing_. I feel _calm_ \- my limbs are warm and soft despite the temperature, and though I can definitely feel my various contusions as they radiate, the sensation isn't aversive or debilitating- its _livening_.

I just didn't think it would be this _beautiful_ …

This is not the first skull I've seen cracked open-I _did_ go to med school after all, but this is _special_. This is the difference between buying a ticket to see the show and being the main act.

 _This…_ this could be a problem.

It takes warm, wet hands and knees to realize that I've kneeled down to get closer look. One of the eyes is completely destroyed, chunks of white sclera and vitreous humor mixing with all that rich, glossy redness. Most of his teeth are cracked if not gone, and his mandibula is shifted unnaturally to one side

A cacophony of proud butterflies erupts within me. I want to show _him_.

I'm about to lean even closer when a sliver of white peeking from the pocket of his leather jacket catches my eye, and I pull it out. _It's a playing card_. I don't have to turn it over to now which one.

 _Son of a bitch._

 ** _AUTHORS NOTE 2:_** Hey! Betcha didn't expect me to show up down here!

I wanted to have a lil talk without spoiling anything, so here I am. First off, I know I don't usually do this, but I just want to explain J's mental state because he's kind of all over the place (erratic and confusing, just how I like em'). I definitely don't think he really has 'feelings' for Harley yet, but I do think he's very interested in her, and I think he has fun with her (not to mention he may have been just a _little_ turned on by her in that last chapter). I think he's pretty conflicted about that, because on the one hand he's the Joker! His whole purpose is fun and if something amuses him, he's gonna do it (double-entendre intended). He just isn't used to have fun _with_ anyone, and while subconsciously that might make him worry that he's losing his touch, he's isn't consciously ready to admit that she's affected him this much. So what does he do? He plays it out.

Going into this chapter I was trying to figure out what his version of courtship look like, and I came up with a mockery of the traditional "shower her with gifts" move. He's a theatrical kind of guy and I think he kind of got swept up in the paramour role- because really, The Joker, _lover boy extraordinaire_ \- how funny is that? He thinks its hilarious.

As for the late (not so great, mostly disappointing) Tavis- I think J was definitely not happy that someone else touched his stuff, but I also think that he took Harley's failed attempt at casual sex as a compliment. The fact that she tried is a testament to how deeply he's dug himself into her min, and the fact that she couldn't go through with it is the proverbial nail in the coffin. So, instead of just straight up killing both of them and being done with it, he gives her a chance, which is what happens at the end of this chapter.

Let me know what you think! All of my love and hugs 3


	13. Chapter 13

**Authors Note:** I have returned from midterms (mostly) unscathed! So basically it was time for a lot of feverish writing and a fair portion of crazed pacing.

To be 100% honest I don't even know how to give this chapter an intro. A lot of things happen- although don't let the lyric inspired title fool you, it doesn't get _that_ good (yet). Suffice it to say that Harley passed a test at the end of chapter 12 but exam season is far from over, and I really don't want to give too much away so I'll just shut my yapper.

Side not, if anyone watches gotham I snuck a little reference in there, gold stars and unicorns to you if you find it! Also, just a little hint, Lichtenburg scars are these super cool and actually really beautiful scar patterns that people get after being struck by lightning, definitely worth checking out. Another hint, Alabama Whitman is from the highly underrated masterpiece True Romance- if you like JxH and you have a thing for young Christian Slater you'll probably dig it.

As always you guys are the bomb-diggity, honestly just the best of the best. Thank you so much for sticking around to read my obsessive blabber! Much love to you all

xoxo, Sewer Angel

 **Chapter 13:** Doing it to death

 _What an asshole!_

I mean, seriously, what the fuck? First he sends some messy-job hitman after Tavis, and then he presumably hires the same guy to snuff me? _The nerve!_ I'm going to kill him.  
I chuckle under my breath- I actually _might!_

A pervasively shameful hurt lacerates my anger and feeds it. I feel incredibly, horribly _stupid_ for thinking he might actually have developed a soft spot for me. _This is what you get for crushing on a psychopath._

When I _do_ turn the card over, I find a simplistic map of the alley drawn in the same purple crayon he used to write the note he left with Finche's heart, a vivid red X demarcating one of the doors I'd passed in my attempted flight. _Fine._ You want _crazy_ Mr. J? _Here she comes_.

I try to wipe some of the blood from my face, forgetting that my hands are covered in it anyways, and I get to my feet. I retrieve my chair leg before grabbing my prize by the ankle, and I feel so high that I wouldn't even notice the heft of the body if it wouldn't _stick_ so much. Honestly, it's _almost_ a struggle to maintain my outrage- but it's nothing a good moment of scornful rumination wont fix.

So I, Harleen Quinzel, kick open the door to the Joker's current haunt, and I march in like I own the place.

'The place' is rectangular, concrete, and widely empty save for some old workbenches and a conveyer belt running along the back wall. It's obviously not a long-term residence. There are maybe 20 men dispersed throughout, mostly collecting at the walls or around benches with stacks of cash and cards. Some bear veteran scars and some have fresh wounds but they all turn to stare. The riot of snarling laughter that greeted me at the door cuts out completely to leave the air dead and ringing vacuously.

 _He_ is there at the apex, resplendent in his trademark violet suit. His hair is returned to it's naturally vibrant green state and slicked back, spats unblemished and emerald shoes immaculately shined. His face is painted white again- smooth, opaque white jarring with the long red smile that adorns his scars and the black shadow that somehow makes his eyes even greener. Seriously, he's better at make up than _I_ am.

Unadorned, he was striking, but now it's like the resolution has been turned up. I feel like _my_ resolution has been turned up too, but in a different way.

"Hooney, I'm home!" I cry out with the most sarcasm I can muster. I'm trying to distract myself from how good he looks, but my voice is a bit high, my accent a bit strong. I refuse to let the literal dead weight slow my strut across the expanse of warehouse separating me from the clown prince on his plastic school chair throne.  
 _The prince of dunces_ , I think with venom.

The bump and slurp of my progress tells me I'm leaving a nice trail. _Good_. I almost stop at the foot of the conveyer belt dais he occupies, but annoyance propels me forward. His grin stretches with each step I take, and I consider depositing my project on his lap to wipe his smile. Sympathy for his fine wool trousers is the only thing that stays my hand. Instead, I drop the DIY elephant man at his feet, a bit of blood and fascia jumping to cling to his previously pristine wing-tips.

To my dismay he pays the body no attention, lazily lapping at my spurned fury. He's got his knees spread wide and his body reclined, spidery white fingers resting on his thighs with freshly blackened nails. The posture is _infuriatingly_ casual and unmistakably dominant.

"Is that a rubber chicken in your pocket or are you just happy I brought you leftovers?" I quip, planting hands on my hips.

"Oh Harley, you _horrid_ creature-I should give you a _swat_ for playing with your food like that, especially after I so _graciously_ procured it for you." The entitled timber he employs is a spark to my pile of dry leaves and a bloody curtain drops on my visual field.

I see his eyes flash before I register the wad of saliva that leaves my mouth to slap against his cheek. _My saliva._ OH my god. I just spat on the Joker. One of his stocky subordinates makes a rather loud choking sound, and all that hazy, impulsive wrath recedes _just_ long enough for me to feel a chill note of apprehension.

One does not simply _spit_ on the _Joker_.

But then he's slapping his knee, his laughter so abrupt that he's the only one who doesn't jump at the raucous outburst. Reassured about my odds of survival for the moment, I cross my arms with fresh obstinacy. He's still laughing, wiping at his tears and my drool when he speaks.

"I have to say, that was _strangely_ pleasant! _Do it again?_ Maybe aim for my mouth this time- _AAHHH!_ " He opens wide like I'm his dentist instead of his psychiatrist.

The rage curtain drops down again, and my fingers dart into his mouth to pinch his tongue for it's insolence. Instead of pulling back like I expect, he bites down. My index is suddenly crunched between those idly sharp teeth, and I recoil with shock.

"OW!" I cry, wrenching my finger from his mouth. The action serves only to widen the puncture, and the momentum makes me tumble backwards off the conveyer belt. Only now that I'm sprawled below him does he _deign_ to stand, obliterating me with the shadow he casts in the harsh overhead light. His tongue dips out to capture the bead of my blood that rests on his lip.

" _HA_ -Whoopsies! Got a little too _excited_ about those leftovers," He nudges what used to be a man's face with the tip of his shoe, and a crumb of bone stuck to meningeal tissue falls out of place with a rather loud splat. "Then again, Harleykins, so did you!" he titters. "And here _I_ was thinking you could _never_ take a life-gosh! _Do I know you at all?"_

"Isn't it funny what a _gun_ to your head will do for your _pri_ orities?" My tone is dry, but my response a little late.

"Mmm, _quite_. I've always found it to be perfectly _rapturous_." He drawls like he's talking about shiatsu, steping down to my level before I can scramble to my feet. He bends and picks me up by the waist, setting me upright like a little doll. I huff and go about straightening my bloodied clothes while he cackles at my disgruntled pretense. Everyone else is painfully silent. Arms crossed and nose scrunched in vexation, I intend to wait for him to stop laughing, but my pique only serves to spur him on. He points a shaking finger at me as if to say _are you guys seeing this?_

My palms strike at his chest, meeting- once again, _very_ firm pectorals-as I shove him. He stumbles backward over the body, and sits down hard on the conveyer belt, but he's _still_ laughing. Which, incase you couldn't tell, is absolutely _infuriating._

"What is _WRONG_ with you?" I shriek, throwing up my hands in exasperation. One of my boots slams into the mucky floor, and the childish action sends him into a fresh fit.

I latch onto the collar of his shirt and yank with reckless impulse- but then his nose is nearly pressed to mine, I'm breathing in his _air_ as he exhales it, and I am _entirely_ unsure what I might have been planning to do.

" _No_ , what's wrong with _you_?" His question is calm and he stands slowly, dragging my hands up above my head with his collar. "Look at yourself!" He splays his fingers. To frame "Baby blues all bright and glassy, rosy cheeks, bated breath? One _might_ think you just had a nice _roll_ in the sack- _or maybe you did?_ Dead men can such _versatile_ lovers- not my thing, but who am I to judge?" He titters. "I told you so."

"You told me _what?"_ I bark, though my fire is waning under a siege of embarrassment at the insinuation.

"It's a godly experience, isn't it? _End_ ing _someone_ …" He purrs

"I've had better." I sniff, defiantly tipping up my chin. I'm lying- I haven't. _Not yet._

He stares down at me over his nose with that _aw_ ful pompous amusement.

"…Mhm." He giggles. The tiny, dubious murmur is enough to throw me back into vicious, transparent denial.

" _You don't_ \- Just- _UGH_ \- you tried to _kill_ me!" I sputter, my indignity clashing with the intemperate elation that his presence gives me. The conflict is clear in my voice and my weakening grip. "And you got some _random_ guy to stab Tavis!"

He pouts and his brows pull up with farce congeniality, the swell of that plush scarlet lower lip tugging at my attention.

"Oh _Cupcake,"_ His head tilts and the fondness of his expression makes me flush even as my hair stands on end. "I just wanted to see what you would do! And if you _had_ died, did you _really_ deserve to stay on as my shrink? I need the _best,_ doc-I'm madder than Jervis!" He cups my cheek and I flinch reflexively. He grins even wider, white fingers coming away from my face smeared in vermillion. "You really should _thank_ me, Harls- you needed to let off a little _steam,_ I could tell. We both know the boy didn't help with that…"He whispers, words thick with a suggestion that tickles in my belly. "You've put on _such_ a delightful performance tonight, it would seem a _shame_ not to ask for an _encore-_ so, what's it gonna be _kid_. The red pill or the blue one- you wanna visit _wonderland_?" he quirks an eyebrow, " _Take your Harley for a test drive?_ " One white hand flicks into the narrow space between us, palm up waiting for mine.

Such an ambiguous offer… and coming from _him_ it really could mean anything. It could mean my death-or much, _much_ worse. I bite my lip. The trepidation that tempers me is unobtrusive in comparison to the temptation growing in my belly like a tumour, and looking into those toxic green eyes I see only _possibility._ That's what I really want, isn't it? Something _unpredictable_ , something wild that defies my control. Something that will _surprise_ me.

And so, with my heart floating somewhere between my ears, I place my hand in his. His fingers fold over mine, locking them in place. I stare at the white skin and tendon so I don't have to meet his eyes when I speak.

"Will there be a tea party?" My voice comes out small and childish. I curse myself for the frailty when a few of his men snicker, reminding me that we aren't alone here. The sharp look he gives them is more than enough to shut their mouths, and his responding laughter is a balm, a warm blanket.

Then I'm flying through the air, spinning above his head and the world is a blur of sonorant watercolour at my fingertips. I giggle with unbridled glee. When he sets me down, his hands stay my elbows so I don't topple over and his touch becomes abruptly proper. His smile, this _new_ smile, flares with alien indulgence.

"If you want it toots, we'll have it! _"_ He proclaims, throwing out an arm. "I can show you how to turn the _whole world_ into your _very_ own oyster."

I have a second to look up and see the mischief in his eyes before he yanks me off balance and into a twirl, dropping me into a dip. I fight to remember where my lungs are with his chest pressing against mine, and I think for a second that maybe, just maybe, I'm in over my head. _Toto, I don't think we're in Arkham anymore._

 _"_ Although _,"_ He intones, _"_ If we're going to have a tea party you're a _touch_ underdressed." He rights me and in a blink he's at a Victorian distance again. His eyes go wide and distant for a moment, and a finger is flung without thought into the air as his mouth curls upward. When his mind returns to the room, there's a dangerous glee affecting his features.

"Get out your dinner gloves boys!" He sings. The boy nod like their heads are on cranks as they look on, clueless. "We're going to meet an _up_ town girl."

Well _I'm_ certainly not an uptown girl.

There's a nauseous little twinge in my belly and the tightening of my lips betrays the scowl that I've swallowed as I cross my arms. Unfortunately it doesn't go unnoticed, and I soon find my cheeks squished between two long palms, my lips pushed out like a fish. Immediately I imagine how my screwed up face must look and I redden to think that he's seeing it in this warped state, but his smile is broad and his proximity makes me forget any shame I might have felt.

"Awwww look boys!" He spins me around by the face so I'm looking at the semi circle of fairly confused men that surround us, the heat of his body licking at my back. Though he does not touch me apart from my cheeks, I feel his presence in the tension that rolls up my spine through the base of my skull. Is this how you feel when you're about to be struck by lightening? Somehow I wouldn't be surprised if I later found Lichtenburg scars.

"My little Harlee-quin is jealous. _Ha!_ " he pats my cheek. "Don't worry cupcake- you'll love this girl, _just your type_ " I really have no idea what he's saying because he's released my face, but a hand in my hair is immediately pulling my head back-and _not_ gently. The tight pinch at my scalp invades my stomach with a horrifying sweetness and then moves further down. _Get a grip Harleen._

When his face appears beaming like the sun and hanging upside down over mine, it's all I can do not to pant like a dog.

" _S_ ince your _first_ was a bit rushed, we simply _must_ make the second special _-_ dontcha' think?" I try not to worry about what that means as he offers his arm. "Shall we?" The lurid violet sleeve is soft and luxurious under my fingers, and I can't help but explore the fabric.

"Where are we going?" My voice is infantile and his regard is sidelong, his grin crooked.

" Shopping!" He exclaims, like it's perfectly obvious, and, with two brisk snaps of his fingers he leads me from the warehouse, a veritable army of thugs trailing in our wake.

As we step back out into the alley, I feel like I'm emerging into another world, like I've cannonballed into the rabbit hole. I don't have a single word in my head as he leads me towards the black SUV that now idles at the mouth of the alley, barking instructions and sending his thugs scattering.

When he reaches the car, he opens the door for me like a perfect gentleman and I scramble inside as fast as I can, trying my best not to bloody the white leather seats. He seems to note my trepidation and his fingers flit out to collect some of the un-dried blood in my hair. As I watch with wide eyes, he draws a smiley face on the seat next to us. I can't help a nervous giggle, and when he winks I gulp quite audibly. Graciously he turns to our driver, who appears to be nearly as perplexed as I am, and rattles off an address that I don't recognize. Then he turns back to me and he just _stares_.

The gaze is absolutely sweltering and just as I'm starting to sweat, he speaks.

"I've always said you look best in red." His expression is completely sincere until he jobs at the massive bruise spreading on my face, and I yelp as he grins. "Purple isn't bad either."

I'm painfully aware of the way my mouth hangs open and I struggle for something to say but my mind is blank. All I can think about is how beautiful he looks in the shifting light of the streetlights that rush past outside.

"Are you _sick_?" His eyebrows pinch together with mock concern.

"No-"

"Did you have a lobotomy while I wasn't looking?"

"I don't-"

"Then why are you giving me that look?" He snaps with what appears to be utter exasperation.

" I just-"

As quickly as his annoyance appeared, it makes it's departure, switching out for boastful anticipation.

"Did you like the presents?" He purrs.

This time a broad grin spreads across my face and I find my throat tightening as blood rushes to my cheeks. It's all I can do to nod vigorously as I stare at my feet. In my periphery I see him slump melodramatically, at this point quite weary of my sudden mutism. I can tell he'll be entirely done with me if I don't nut up soon, and I am _not_ giving up this opportunity. I also don't really feel like dying today- especially not after fighting for my life in that alley.

"You know I crushed up the bones?" I blurt. "With a hammer." I add, like that explains anything. My words are tiny and hopeful, but I'm too anxious to be embarrassed.

His eyebrows are knotted up in in caricatured confusion but his mouth jerks up into one of those wonky half smiles.

"From Finchies' hand- I baked em' so they'd crush up real good." I'm beaming now, perking up under his significantly less aggravated gaze. "You know, so the cops couldn't find nothin'."

"What a _clever_ girl." He croons dotingly as he chucks me under the chin. "What did you do with the heart?"

I'm on a roll now, describing the disposal process in animated detail as he interjects with anecdotes and quips, laughing when I tell him about hand soup and the sneaky blood stain from my kitchen floor, and before I know it we've pulled up outside a fancy looking condo building. It's one of those trendy converted loft type places, the kind where you pay hundreds of thousands for concrete floors and brushed metal fixtures.

Our driver gets out first, opening the door for me. J meets me on my side, placing his hand on the small of my back and guiding me to the doors. Given how easily recognizable he is, I'm shocked at how un-phased he seems walking straight into a residential building, but my confusion clears up when two of his men open the doors for us. Inside, another one of his men stands behind the concierge desk- the concierge himself is draped over it, bleeding onto the floor. Another two men are stationed next to the elevators, and one of them hits the button so it opens while we approach. All of them are still and silent like hulking tattooed soldiers, but I get the feeling they only put on the stoic front to avoid his attention. J doesn't seem to notice the treatment, whistling as he strolls into the elevator. I guess he must be used to it. I on the other hand, feel like a princess.

Yeah. I could _definitely_ get used to this.

We ride up to the top floor, exiting into a hallway lined with another set of henchmen. I can tell they're curious about me, but they're trying not to get caught looking. I catch the eye of a particularly stocky one and I stick my tongue out as we pass. He blushes, suddenly finding his shoes extremely interesting.

We come to a stop at the last door in the hall, which is being guarded by perhaps the largest man I have ever seen- he's taller than the joker, which is impressive considering that J caps out at whopping 6'5''. This guy must be at least two inches taller with the muscle to back it up and his shoulders appear wider than the door he's blocking. He's got warm russet skin and a strong jaw with a flat nose and flared nostrils that give him the look of a hunting cat, but his dark eyes are almost unnervingly calm. He wears a red beret on his smooth shaven head, a grey cargo jacket with a smiley face pin on one of the pockets, and he's got one of those thick 1970s moustaches that comes down the sides of his mouth to stop at his jaw. The most interesting thing about him though, is the deep scar that drags from the corner of his left eye to taper at his chin.

Unlike the others- some of whom actually quiver when J walks by, this man simply smiles at his approaching boss, cradling a tommy gun like a baby.

"How's the package?" Asks J, with a grin. "All wrapped up nice and tight?"

The goliath simply nods.

"Good man, Roscoe." Replies the clown prince, patting his hench twice on the shoulder before stepping past him and leading me into the loft. As we push through the door, the contents of the "package" become glaringly obvious.

It's a nice place, one of those two story lofts with big skylights and uncomfortable looking modern furniture, but it's considerably less interesting than the woman tied to a chair in the middle of the room. I recognize the 'uptown girl' instantly- how could I not? I used to watch her show in college.

Of course, Sophie Sinclair doesn't look as composed right now as she does on television. She's still stunning- in her mid thirties looking more like 25 with her delicate nose and high cheekbones- but her blonde hair is mussed, bunched up under the cloth gag tied around her face. Her big blue eyes are filled with terror, mascara running streaks down her cheeks as she sobs into the silk scarf in her mouth.

Shopping. _Right_. This seems like a little more than that, and I wonder just exactly why we're here with this blond haired, blue eyed TV psychologist. I wonder why this woman, who could be me in another life, is crying her eyes out in front of us.

"Hiii Sophie…" He croons the Joker, stepping forward and leaning down to get on her level, propping his hands on his knees. "Harley, say hi to Sophie."

I don't want to betray my nerves, so I put a little pep in my step as I move to meet him.

"Hiya Soph!" I chirp, plastering on a big smile and wiggling my fingers at her.

"Sophie, this is my doctor _Har_ ley. She's here to clear some things up for you. Isn't. That. _Nice_?" Sophie tries to turn away from us but the ties keep her from moving too much. "Doc, why do I stab people?" He asks, in the most nonchalant way.

"Cause it makes ya' laugh?" I try, giving him a shrug. He grins back, and though I'm still weary, I feel that warm swelling in my chest.

"That's right, pumpkin." He replies with syrupy warmth. "Cause it makes me _laugh_. Do you know what Sophie here has been saying about me on her little show?"

I shake my head no.

"Well." He plants his hands on his hips. "Sophie thinks that I stab people because I feel impotent. What do you think about that, Harls?"

My eyebrows screw up without me having to force the expression, because _seriously?_ Impotent? She has got to be joking. And just who does she think she is talking about him like that? She doesn't _know_ him- I doubt she'd ever even seen him in person before today!

"I don't think that's very nice, Mistah J." I reply shaking my head like one might do to a misbehaving child.

"No it isn't, _not nice at all_. You know what else? She thinks I strangle people because I feel a lack of personal control! Now how does that sit with you Doc?"

I'm glaring at the woman now, and she looks as shocked by my reaction as I feel.

"Not well Mistah J- I think you strangle people cause ya like how it feels." I can't help a bashful little giggle on that last part.

J titters ecstatically, as he straightens up to face me.

"Right you are _kiddo_ , and I can't let her continue to run my good name through the dirt, now can I?"

"Nuh-uh!"

"So, what do you propose we do about it?"

I look up at him, enthralled by the way his ruby lips move when he says 'we' and the how his perfectly pompadoured hair seems to glow green in the lamplight.

"I think we gotta teach her a lesson…" I sound hazy- almost drunk, not even realizing what I've said or where it's going to lead until his face lights up and the sight is so stunning that I don't even really care.

" _Atta girl!"_ He ruffles my already blood-matted hair and I nearly swoon under the attention, but my breath goes entirely when he bends down for _me,_ tipping my face up to look at him _._ "Do you think you can keep Sophie company while Daddy has a word with his underlings?" I nod eagerly. "You girls play nice now, ya hear?" His voice drops into threat and suggestion as he leers over my shoulder toward the now severely confused prime-time sensation.

He takes one of my stress-ball fists and uncoils my fingers to press something cool into my palm. I'm so busy relishing the sensation of his hand on mine through the soft purple leather of his gloves that he's already striding back to the door when I realize I'm holding a switchblade.I flick out the knife, watching reflected light dance along its treacherous edge- the weight of it in my hand is perfect and terrifying.

"Oh, and take these." I look up just in time to catch a leather glove to the face. He chuckles as I bend to pick them up from the floor.

"For the fingerprints-" He shrugs. "You know, you really should do something about those, I'd be _happy_ to help." I blink at him.

"Wait- do you _not_ have fingerprints?"

He grins and waggles ten unnaturally smooth digits in front of my face.

"They might catch me red handed, but they'll _never_ catch my red hands."

"How did you-"

"Doesn't matter," He dismisses me with a wave. "Lots of ways to skin a bat." With that, he's swooping out of the room and I'm alone again with this wreck of a woman.

I don't know exactly what 'play nice' means coming from him, but I've got a fairly good idea, so I take a deep breath and I get into character. I start of with a slow turn, sizing up Sophie as I slip on the gloves. I enjoy the warmth of them, how my hands swim inside them, but I try not to let my schoolgirl giddiness show through.

I realize now that Sophie is sizing me up too- I'm not as threatening as him, _obviously_. I wonder how it might feel to have that kind of reputation, the kind that makes atheists pray when you enter the room.

"Ya know I used to know girls like you when I was a kid." I've pitched my voice up, rounding the words to make them silly and girlish. The effect is surprisingly chilling, so I begin to play with his knife, flipping the blade in and out, in and out. "They picked on me, called me names, talked behind my back… It hurts ya' know?"

Sophie's eyes jerk back and forth with the movement, but I want her to look at me so I lurch forward, pressing the sharp edge up under her chin. I pause for a moment- I wasn't expecting this. I didn't know how fragile her skin would feel under steel, and I certainly didn't expect the temptation to push in. I hold back- I mean I don't want to _kill_ her…

"Worst part was I was little- even for my age. I couldn't do nothin' about it, I was _weak_." I spit this part and she flinches, nicking herself. My breath hitches when a tiny drop of blood appears on her perfect white canvas skin. Hesitantly, I press my finger against the shallow wound, drawing a tiny smiley face like he did in the car. She's crying again now, sparkling dewdrops pouring from her eyes.

"I've been getting strong though, I've been _learning_." I pull back, straightening up as I stalk around to stand behind her, using the switchblade to push her hair back from her neck. "To be honest, I didn't know why I was doin it- I just thought I was bored, but I get it now." I lean in close, letting her feel my breath on her neck as I drop into a lilting whisper.

"I been doin it for him. Crazy huh?" I giggle, stalking back around to face her from the front again. "I feel bad for you. Not cause a what we're gonna do to ya-" I flick the blade closed, twisting my head sharply like I've seen him do. "cause you're _never_ gonna understand. See my Puddin' out there," I jerk a thumb over my shoulder, propping the other on my hip. "He's a few steps a head of the rest of us, he's _evolved_. I know it's not a popular opinion," I pause, a bashfully affectionate smile spreading over my face."but then again, there was a time Jesus wasn't too popular either."  
 _Did you just compare the Joker to Jesus Christ?_ Shut up Harleen.

"He's a humanitarian, see? He take the time to try and teach us, he works _hard_ to put on a show, and even though pinheads like _you_ keep _shootin'_ him down he doesn't give up on ya'." I don't know if he really is trying to teach us anything, or if the line is just a bit- but I do know that he loves his job, and he doesn't let anyone steal his joy.  
 _I respect that._

"He's a die-hard optimist, god love' em. I don't got the same kinda faith though." I wipe the grin off my face, pulling out the blade again- slow this time. "See, I think some people are hopeless." On impulse I straddle her, which seems to disturb her more than the knife I'm running across her collar bone, and I have to choke down my laughter to keep a straight face. "I think some people are heartless cowards who try to crush anything they don't understand, and I think those people deserve to be _gutted_ like _fish_." By now I'm growling, bitter and vicious.

Sophie is shaking now, her pupils massive like a cornered rabbit. "You one a' those people Sophie?" She shakes her head frantically. "Hmmm… I dunno Soph, for some reason I just don't quite believe ya-" I tap the flat of the blade against her temple and she lets out a heaving sob, blowing an inadvertent snot bubble. This time I have to laugh- I mean can you blame me? "You know, you're kinda disappointing up close- your hair looks better on TV."

A tinge of pique dulls Sophia's fear, and I drive the switchblade into the arm of the chair just next to her pinkie in attempt to refresh the terror.

"Isn't that _always_ the way?" I whip around to see J sauntering down the stairs from the second level- which is not where I expected him to be coming from. I would wonder how it's possible to move that quietly, but I'm distracted by the floor length fur coat he now has draped over his shoulders, which explains Sophie's moment of annoyance. Of course it's ridiculously ostentatious in combination with his suit. I _love it-_ he wears it like a coronation cloak, all that's missing is a crown and sceptre. I jump to my feet and scamper forward, shucking his gloves to bury my naked fingers in the palatial mink.

"I dunno Mistah J, you look great on TV but it ain't got _nothin'_ on the real thing."

" _Yes_ , well it's hard to improve on perfection." He replies haughtily, turning up he nose though his smirk is overly satisfied.

"Well?" He booms, raising both eyebrows at my continued proximity. "Hop to it _little bunny_! Go make yourself presentable- daddy's not going to wait around all day." With that, his hand is suddenly on the side of my face and he's shoving me roughly out of the way. I stumble to the side, dozy smile never leaving my face as he sweeps past in his furs.

I giggle as I scurry up the stairs, still staring as he rends the switchblade from the overstuffed chair. I probably should be watching my feet though, because I stumble, slamming my knees into the stairs and letting out a startled 'Ouff!' I hear him snicker though he doesn't look back, and the smarting is immediately dulled.

At the top of the stairs, I enter a hall with far too many doors for someone without a family of five. I shove open each door on the way, revealing an office, a guest room, some sort of hokey new-age meditation studio, and an extra sitting room before I discover her bedroom, which has already been quite thoroughly torn through. I take the time to finish the job of smashing a family portrait that my predecessor knocked off the wall before entering her closet.

'Closet' it is in title only- this place looks more like a ballroom.

It has its own _chandelier_ , and about a million flawlessly lit full-length mirrors. There's a whole wall of shoes alone. I have the distinct impression that I have wandered onto a Disney set and an animatronic scarf is going to start serenading me. Well, I mean I would if Sophia hadn't started screaming- this might be more of a Tarantino movie, but I'd rather be Alabama Whitman than sleeping beauty any day of the week. I feel awkward and intrusive for a second, but then I remember that for today, _the world is my oyster._ So I let my self canter and rip through the gowns and the furs and the delicate silk shirts. But then I halt completely because I see _it_.

I can tell this one is special even to its owner because it's the only dress that has its own mannequin. The top is blood red silk, halter wrapping up into a delicate bow at the neck. A thick black ribbon cinches the waist before the skirt blooms out in airy layers of chiffon, draped like carnation petals to fall just below the knee. A quick peek at the tag reveals it to be Dior, definitely vintage- maybe 1950's. _Ash would be so proud._

I strip down and wrestle it off the mannequin- probably more with more aggression than it deserves. Somehow I manage not to rip it before I actually get it on and _god do I look_ _amazing_! It fits perfectly; it even makes me look like I'm packing at _least_ a C-cup. I contemplate a series of increasingly impractical heels until I locate a pair of strappy black Valentino flats, and I slid them on before slipping into Sophie's en-suit to assess my face and hair.

I cringe immediately- there are large purple bruises spreading over my cheek and jaw, I've got a split lip, and I'm absolutely covered in blood. I try to be gentle with the damaged skin, scrubbing off the viscera with a monogrammed hand towel. My face looks better at least, but there isn't much I can do with the rat's nest I've been calling my hair. The blood has mostly drenched the ends but dried, it acts like extra hold hairspray. After trying to brush it out, I find that all I'm really doing is ripping it out at the roots. There's no way I'll be able to tame it into a bun or a pony tail without washing it, so I decide to work with the middle part I have going, pulling it up into high pigtails on either side of my head.

Satisfied with the result, I rummage through Sophie's drawers, pulling out black eyeliner and red lipstick. I make quick work of my eyes, drawing on delicate wings and coating my lashes before swiping on the lipstick. As an after thought, I extend the red just a little bit past my lips- nowhere near his trademark grin, just a hint of unhinged mirth.

I think it goes quite nicely with the bruises if I do say so myself.

Before leaving the bathroom I shove the bloodied towel and my ruined clothes into the waste bin, dropping a lit match in with them. Given the comment about my fingerprints I'm guessing he doesn't want a certain detective to know I've been here, which is really very sweet of him.

As I near the top of the stairs, Sophie's now un-gagged bawling gets louder and louder. The psychiatrist is looking significantly rougher than she did when I left, a series of short cuts now spelling out 'fraud' on her forehead. Well, if she _does_ make it out of this alive she'll definitely lose her show.

J stalks around her with the grace of an apex predator, hands clasped behind his back.

"Pl _ease_ -" She sobs, "I'll give you whatever you want! You know I have the money-"

" HA-" he stops with his back to me, slapping his knee. "Harley! Are you hearing this? SHE'S TRYING TO _BRIBE_ US!" He shrieks with absolute delight like she's just offered to feed herself feet first to an alligator. I still can't quite believe that I'm seeing this in _person_ \- the way she shakes is a glowing review of his prowess, and I _should_ feel bad for her, but I'm too busy watching _him_.

"I want a baby hyena- no, _two!_ " I shout, taking the steps two at a time to meet him.

"Daffy dame." He sighs, shaking his head. "Anyways, you heard the lady; two hyenas and a metric ton of white phosphorus, stat!" He demands, thrusting a long finger into the air before pausing to tap it against the tip of his sharp nose. "Or maybe two dead hyenas stuffed with a metric ton of white phosphorus? You know, " he shrugs, "in the interest of cutting down on shipping charges." He chuckles, looking over his shoulder for my reaction. The laughter stumbles when he sees me, and he clears his throat. _Yahtzee!_

My grin is of the overly smug variety, making his eyebrows press down sternly as he turns away.

"Fun aside, Harley, _never_ take a bribe if plan on fulfilling your end of the deal- lacks criminal integrity. Time for a lesson-" He snaps his fingers, pointing at the floor next to him. " _Here_." I hop into position, trying hard to suppress my unyielding beam and matching his posture.

Sophie seemed to have given on her begging, but she starts up again now that hes pulling a gun from his jacket. It's a desert eagle in ornate purple and gold, custom for sure and hypnotizing beautiful.

"You know, the easiest way to end a life is with a bomb. It's remote, cold- _heh_ , well, not _literally_ cold- nothing like a stick of dynamite on a winter's night to warm a man's bones, I always say. My point is that the average bear can get away with a lethal bombing and remain relatively guilt free, you don't even have to watch it happen. Next is a long-range gun, then a handgun, followed by a shotgun- _messier_ you know? The most _intimate_ way is with your hands- maybe a knife if you want to make it last. They all have their merits of course, but I consider it of utmost importance to be a renaissance killer, not just to take lives, but to do so _art_ fully. Now," He takes my right hand with misleading tenderness and curls my fingers around the grip of the gun, taking my index and sliding it against the trigger. I watch from some remote corner of my mind, and when I look up into his face I see that slow malicious smile that he had turned on Sophie only seconds before. I shiver and his acid eyes boil. "Your debut was a big _splash_ , but I thought you might have some performance anxiety, so I'm going to go easy on you for your sophomore effort."

My mouth hangs open dumbly. I know what he's asking, _commanding_ , but somehow I can't understand gun feels foreign and awkward in my grip though it isn't the first time I've held one. This isn't a gun range, and my target isn't made of paper. I had no problem with this woman dying when the blood was on his hands, but now I can't draw in enough breath to alleviate the spinning in my head.  
 _Come on, don't be a scaredy cat. You've already killed one person today-_

I level the gun with Sophie's head. I stare into her eyes and she's screaming, but my brain doesn't translate a word of it. We really aren't that different are we? Pretty little blonde psychiatrist looking to make a buck off a few hardened psychotics- I was going to write a book, wasn't I? I was going to use his name to make my own. I shove the muzzle up against her forehead and I feel a thrill run through me. A heat that burns through my synapses... and then I think about what bubbie would think, how Leland would look at me. I wonder if Ash would ever talk to me again…

My trigger finger stays frozen.

"All you have to do is _squeeze_ …" The Joker whispers velvet into my ear, suddenly close enough that his breath brings up a rash of goosebumps.

I scrunch my eyes, I bare my teeth, and I tense every muscle in my body but still I can't do it. My mind is in frenzy now, racing for an excuse, some way to get out of this without disappointing him- I drop my arms and he growls, low and foreboding.

"She hasn't done anything!" I'm the one pleading now, ugly desperation keeping me from turning to face him. "That other guy was going to-"

"No- _nononono_ ," He spins me by the shoulders, wagging a finger in my face. "Don't do _that_. Don't rationalize; don't try to _explain_ it like that- you know what you're doing? You're trying to de _humanize_ him, you think you _should_ feel guilty but you _don't_ , so you're trying to turn it into a grand, merciful act of morality and self-preservation. Let me guess, he was a _bad_ guy right?" His eyebrows jump up with incredulous venom. "He _deserved_ it." He pitches his voice up in a rude mockery of mine. "And if _you_ didn't bash his skull in he was going to bash in someone else's right? Maybe a kid- Oooh or a pregnant woman- there's some _juicy_ justifi _cation_ for you. _I call bullshit, cupcake."_ He flicks my forehead with his middle finger and I flinch. _"_ When you peel away the excuses all you have left is _desire_." Is _that_ what this is? "You _wanted_ to kill him, and I think you want to kill _her,_ only this time you don't have a nice pre-packaged _shroud_ , this time you only have the core- no layers. You have to _look_ at it, and it makes you _sick_." I'm shaking my head no as fast as I can until he grabs me by the chin.

I'll be the first to admit I can admire the way he kills- he makes it beautiful, he makes _everything_ beautiful. But that isn't the same as wanting to do it my _self_ , right?

"You're not _supposed_ to like violence; you're not _supposed_ to _want_ to kill, but you _do_ \- so you must be a bad person right?"

He uses his grip to nod my head up and down for me.

" _Wrong. You_ only kill people who _deserve_ to die- right? What if I told you she treats her assistant like dirt- no? That's not enough? Hmm. Alright, how about she neglects her son- leaves him to the nanny. Getting a little warmer? Ok, now nanny diddles the kid and _mommy_ doesn't _believe_ him- _Ah_ now we're getting somewhere aren't we? All right, here's the cincher: last Christmas mommy bought little Jimmy a puppy. But the puppy never got potty trained, so one night, mommy took the puppy on a walk to infinity, and told _poor lil' Jimmy_ he ran away- how's that cupcake, we getting _closer_ now?"

I want to plug my ears but I know it wouldn't shut him out-

"She didn't do that. She didn't do any of that, you're _lying!_ " Even to myself I sound stupid.

" _IT DOESN'T MATTER WHAT SHE DID!"_ He roars and I cower at the sudden savagery that contorts his features. _"_ Haven't you been _listening?_ Don't _kill_ her because she _deserves_ it, don't _reason_ away the beauty. Do not _cheapen_ it." His voice drops into husk and the contrast is jarring when he leans in closer, never letting me look away. "Do it for the _power_ , the catharsis _-_ be _selfish_ Harley, _be_ human. _Do_ it because you _want_ to."

"I _DON'T!"_ I actually stomp my foot now, tearing out of his grasp. I feel like a train, just stuck on my track now and the most terrifying thing is that I have no idea why I'm trying not to switch directions. _"_ I _don't_ want to kill her, _I'M NOT LIKE YOU_! _"_ Hot, angry tears gush from my eyes, and my embarrassment for them stokes the fire in my lungs. I try to toss away the gun, but he grabs my wrists and holds my fingers to the handle, pulling me flush agains his chest. To my great shame the contact makes my heart beat faster than the thought of murdering this woman.

" _Tut-tut_ , we've been over this Har _leen_." He sneers my full name like a punishment and I _hate_ it. "You _know_ I don't like having to repeat myself, but I will. _Just_ for _you_." His face softens momentarily. I know it's a ploy but my heart flutters, and I start thinking more about the warmth of his body and a little less about the gun in our hands. " I can _see_ it- I saw it two sessions in. " He doesn't have to specify what _it_ is for me to snarl. He laughs in my face and I ball up my free hand, punching futilely at his chest until he snatches my wrist and twists my arm to make me yelp.

"You _proved_ it to me! _Ohh_ , I _know_ about the drunk you _brain_ ed _-_ and the fight club, that one was cute. Do you really think a _fight_ is going to fill your belly? Sate that _hunger?"_ His grin is blinding and triumphant. I dig my nails into his fingers but he doesn't give me a reaction. " _No_ , these things always escalate, they _have_ to- it's the natural way. Why fight _in_ stinct- why supress everything that makes you _special_? Do you know what an _insult_ that is? I saw potential in you, _I took you under my wing_ , and you have the _nerve_ to disrespect me like this?"

"I _CAN'T."_ My voice is raw now and I hate that I'm the only one yelling- I hate that my protest is so unconvincing.

He sighs and releases my wrist to pinch the bridge of his nose, the corner of his lips twitching with aggravation like I'm a child refusing to go to bed. I can see a vein pulsing in his tensed neck and I begin to gnaw on my lip.

"Everybody _can_ \- do you need a Goddamn _demonstration?"_ He retorts, voice rising again. "Here," He rips the gun out of my grip and releases me. I numbly watch him tuck the piece under his arm and walk to the bound woman.

" _Hi_ Sophie. _Want to make a choice?_ " He sneers. He's awfully _close_ to her, isn't he? I feel my grimace come on and I huff at it.

"I'm going to untie you, so there are two things you can do." He continues, pulling out his knife. She cowers as he chuckles, going to work on the ropes binding her ankles and then the ones around her torso. "You can run, and I'm sure you'll get to the door _at least_ … then you'll be gunned down by my men. Not a very ex _citing_ death, I know. Desperate times and all that. _Or_ you can take this gun and shoot me with it, _no catch_." His grin goes wide and her eyes go blank, mouth slack in shock and confusion.

Every muscle in my body has tensed, my face feels uncomfortably taught- there _has_ to be a catch, _right_? When he frees her hands, he looks at me and _winks_. Then he passes her the magnum. _Bastard_.

At first Sophie shrinks back from the proffered firearm. Then she darts forward and grabs it from J, who is still looking at me- smiling his biggest, brightest smile as she turns the gun on him. _I want to pummel it off his stupid, pretty face._

When her finger moves for the trigger, my hand closes around the vase on the table next to me and I know ex _actly_ what I'm doing when I bring it down over her head. The vase shatters in fireworks of blue and white china, speckled with the blood gushing from her head. For a moment as I stand over her, we're the only people in the room and she looks so surprised that I almost laugh.

Then the red curtain drops and I lose my shit.

I blink and suddenly I'm straddling her. I try to go for her neck but she beats away my hands so I just start punching. I feel the crunch of her nose in my bones and I swing harder. She claws at me, grabs a shard of china and buries it in my calf but I don't feel a _thing_. I knot my hand in her hair and rip out a fistful before smashing her head back into the floor until she grows weak. I yank the shard from my leg and I bring it down over and over until the red curtain is made of blood dripping down my face, spraying through the air and soaking the carpet. I just keep stabbing, and each time the skin gives way it's softer. When I hit bone, my shank snaps in my fist so I start using my hands again, elbows, anything until I hear a crack. I wrap my fingers around fractured rib and mutilated flesh and I tear at it, like I'm ripping grass from the ground throwing it over my shoulders- This is not the way Selina taught me to fight.

There is no strategy; no calculation- this is absolute frenzy. This is every moment of fear and frustration that has weighed on me in these past months. This is the abusive voicemails from my mother and sister, Leland's coddling and Selina's scepticism. This is every moment I've ever hated myself, every moment I've felt ashamed and weak and stupid-

This is selfish, joyful, catharsis, and I _love_ it.

I don't even know what I'm doing now but I'm not slowing down and I'm not sure I can, so I don't really understand what's happened when one of my hands is suddenly restrained and I'm being pulled away from my punching bag. Naturally, I whip around with my other fist balled and ready. There's a blur of green hair as his head snaps to the side and then another bloom of blood from his split lip, and everything is clear again.

" _Ohmygod_ I'm so sor-" I don't finish the apology because he's cackling, clutching a pig tail in each hand and yanking my my head back as I dig my fingers into his jaw. He's still laughing when our mouths crash together.

Everything is teeth, tongue and rippled scars, there is no warm up, no testing the water- it's more like a fight than a kiss but it's enough to turn my insides to lit napalm. He tastes like blood and candy, and when I open my mouth he steals my breath. I push back as much as I can- not to move away but to get closer, twisting my fingers in his hair and tugging at his busted lip. I feel the growl rumble in his chest before it rolls between my lips and he shoves me back without letting me come up for air. I slip in the blood at our feet, and I almost take him down with me but he's got his hands on my hips, lifting me and slamming me into the window so my spine jars against the exposed glass.

I think I might be dying in the most beautiful way possible, and I'm starting to think my entire life led to this moment alone- gulping acid like water in the desert, setting myself on fire and taking a deep inhale from an oxygen tank, clinging to the only broken parachute as I throw myself into the sky. I want this to last forever and that's exactly what I'm thinking when he pulls away.

I want to hang on, to pull him back and fight for more but I think I've turned to jelly and it's all I can do to keep myself up by my grip on his coat. Then he's grinning, and I feel this dopey smile spreading across my face before the pain erupts in my jaw, shooting up into my cranium when he suckers me right in the mouth.

He pulls back his fist and calmly, he sets me down before turning to retrieve his gun from the dead girl. Understandably, it takes me a few seconds to get my bearings.

 _"_ What was that for?" I honestly don't know if I'm asking about the kiss or the punch. He shrugs, arching an eyebrow as he wipes the piece off on the sleeve of his new fur coat.

"Payback, insolence, and personal satisfaction. You hungry? Because I am absolutely _famished_."


	14. Chapter 14

**Authors Note** : Hey I'm back! I've been absolutely swamped with school and I'm so sorry I left you hanging!

Anyways, down to the dirt: this chapter starts out with some fluff (well, fluff if you're the Joker) and then escalates to a lot of murder (don't worry its the fun kind). Also this is the first time we get to see J _really_ put on a show! It was exciting and nerve-wracking to write, so I hope I got it right. Either way there will eventually be more where that came from!

As always, thank you from the bottom of my heart- I read all your reviews and I do a happy dance every time I get a favourite. It honestly means so much to me that you guys are enjoying the story and I just want to cuddle you all in my blanket fort.

Without further ado, read on! All my love to you kiddos.

 **Chapter 14: Twinkle, twinkle little bat, how I wonder where you're at**

We rip though Sophie's kitchen like a couple of rabid animals, pausing only to finish off a pint of Hagen Daz. Sadly that's the only appetizing snack food she has, and J is getting hangry. I can tell because the kitchen knives he's throwing are getting closer and closer to my head- don't worry though; I'm a dodge ball champ from way back.  
How to handle a picky killer clown with low blood sugar?

Grilled cheese.

I'm slicing cheddar while he fiddles with the sound system- Sophie has one of those satellite radio setups and he chews his scars as he jabs at the control panel. He's been scanning through the stations for about 5 minutes now, which in theory would be annoying if it weren't for his endlessly entertaining commentary. Apparently he's going to show that 'Kanye fellow' a thing or two about god, and he also has some very creative ideas about where to put that croissant. Furthermore, bats used to call him on his cellphone, late night when he needed his love.  
 _Yeah_. That one nearly made me pee myself

Eventually, he settles on Elvis and chases me around the island singing, "Baby let's play house". These antics turn me into a giggling mess and I squeal as I slide around the corners, throwing handfuls of cheese that he tries to catch in his mouth though most of it ends up on the floor.

"I'd rather see you dead little girl, than to be with another man-" He exaggerates the king's baritone tremolo, turning his air guitar into an air chainsaw that he uses to cut off one of my arms. The line was already horrifying but it's a million times worse coming from him- trust me, I know- its just that I can't bring myself to find it anything but charming. So I brandish my imaginary severed arm high over my head.

"Stay back- I'm armed!" I shriek, beating him back with it.

This repartee results in a rapidly escalating fencing match of chainsaw versus arm, in which I would be severely disadvantaged even if he wasn't playing dirty- by which I mean he keeps yanking pig tails and trying to trip me. I manage to hold my own for a while though- that's the advantage of being small, makes you hard to catch- but when he drops the chainsaw and pulls out the tickle fingers, I know I'm done for. It takes about two seconds for me to end up on the floor, gasping for air and trying desperately to fend off the attack.

I'm clawing at him furiously, trying to bite his fingers to keep them away from my now aching sides. He lets out a feral roar snatching my wrists and pinning them to the floor above my head- but then he's on top of me, and somehow I've gotten my legs wrapped around his hips, and we both freeze.

Suddenly it is absolutely _sweltering_ in here- if any more blood rushes to my face I might actually pass out. He has a very strange look on his face, and his grip on my wrists starts to hurt before his mouth crumples down and he glares at me.

"I'm _hungry_." He grumbles it like an accusation but he doesn't move off me or let me go- _not that I'm complaining._ I let out a shaky little laugh- seriously, he's thinking about _food_ right now? In this position, I can barely think at _all_ -

"I was tryin' ta make you a sandwich before you started chasin' me!"

He lets out a long sigh with an exaggerated eye roll on top.

" Harley, that's no excuse for such neglect- _look_ at me, I'm wasting away!"

I bite my lip to hold in a snicker. I don't need to _look_ at him, I can _feel_ him _just fine_. _Really, really fine-_

He releases me and rolls off abruptly, jumping to his feet and brushing off his suit. I'm trying very hard not to pout, but I feel suddenly very cold in his absence and it takes a great deal of mental work to pick myself up off the floor. He storms back around to the other side of the island, muttering under his breath and I return to my cheese slicing, wondering what exactly I did to make him so upset.

He yanks a butcher knife from the wall and starts a frenzied round of five-finger fillet that has my heart jumping up into my throat because _really_ , he would only have to slip up once and then bye-bye Mr thumb! I know better than to say so though and I have to watch in abject terror, running through my first aid as I plop two un-grilled cheeses into the frying pan.

There's a moment of silent static before the next song comes on, but J's grimace turns positively corrosive when the first notes of 'Devil in disguise' begin to play, and suddenly the butcher knife is whizzing by millimetres from my cheek. I yelp, lurching to the side as it impales itself in one of the decorative gourds on the shelf behind my head.

I throw down my spatula and whirl on the gourd, grabbing it and tucking it under my arm- I'm expecting to pull out the knife in one go, but what ensues is a fight to the death with a fake vegetable. By the time I actually manage to free the weapon, my dignity is in its death throes but I'm pissed enough to ignore the embarrassment.

 _I mean how the hell am I supposed to feed him if he kills me first?_

I turn back, chucking the knife at his head with as much force as I can muster- I'm expecting him to catch it, but he doesn't even have to try because my aim is absolutely _atrocious_. I can tell he's trying to keep up his grumping but he falters, letting out a low chuckle and rubbing at his forehead before giving me a look of begrudging pity.

" _Oh cupcake_ \- we're going to have to work on that. "

My petulant glower disappears almost immediately- 'working on it' implies sticking around, spending more time together, also possibly being allowed to snuggle up to him so he can teach me to throw… These are all things that I find _highly_ agreeable.

"Harley? _Snap out of it-_ " He barks "Is something burning?"

Yes, something is definitely burning- I rush to flip the grilled cheeses, which turn out to be quite blackened on one side. Luckily J doesn't seem to mind when I serve them, drowning them both in hot sauce and scarfing them down in record time before clasping his hands on the counter in front of him, beaming up at me, and asking for two more. I comply, munching on my own sandwich and watching his frenzy with wide eyes. I don't think I've ever seen anyone eat with such zealous aggression- there are crumbs flying, hot sauce everywhere, and he might actually be growling- its _ado_ the amount he's put away he finishes first, and the he promptly Frisbees his plate at the wall. I squeak at the resulting crash, and for a second I am truly shocked- I was about to put my own plate in the dishwasher. But I don't _have_ to, do I?

A slow grin spreads across my face and I raise my plate high over my head before letting it shatter on the floor at my feet. _Well that was incredibly satisfying._

 _"_ Again?" I squeal, now bouncing on the spot.

To my delight, the clown of my dreams looks just a little bit proud as he snatches a flower vase from the middle of the island and hurls it at the floor. I'm clapping now, racing for the cupboard with him at my heels, and soon the kitchen is filled with a symphony of exploding glassware, the floor a carpet of ceramics. When the final glass has been broken, we surveil the mess for a moment and he tugs one of my pigtails.

"We better get a move on Harley-girl, we've got a _party_ to crash."

I look up at him- his lipstick is smeared now, mixed with hot sauce and blood- I'm sure mine looks about the same. Actually, I think some of the lipstick on his face might have started off on mine. The thought starts me snickering, and J quirks an eyebrow at my sudden mirth.

"You got a lil' somthin on your face, Mistah J. Here, lemme help ya."

Without thinking, I pop my thumb into my mouth and use it to start wiping away some of the excess red. J, for his part looks utterly baffled- it can't be often that someone spit-cleans his face. I consider pulling away but it's a bit late now, so I put on a stoic face and I pretend that this isn't weird at all. To my surprise he _actually_ allows me to finish the job, and then he waits patiently as I pull my lipstick from the top of my dress so I can touch up his grin. When I'm done I tuck the lipstick away and I'm about to straighten his loopy evergreen bowtie when he plants one of his palms flat on my face and pushes me back.

"For the love of god, woman! _Stop pawing the goods_!" He scolds, eyes widening in warning. _Geez, talk about mood swings!_

I throw up my hands in surrender- I'm pretty sure that what I actually _want_ to do will get me killed, so I'm sulking hard. He scowls at me for a moment before straightening his jacket and strutting for the door without another word. I rush to follow at his heels as we leave the building, henchmen falling in line behind us.

Outside the sun has risen, Sunday morning having come without my even noticing that Saturday night had passed. I don't dare speak in the car and he just glares out the window. He hasn't told me where we're going or what will happen when we get there, but now is clearly not the time to ask, so I'm left to my buzzing whirlwind of anxious thought. I do my best to fix my own makeup in the rear view while the driver tries desperately not to look at me. I finish the job too quickly, though, and I'm left to wonder again what I've wrong.

Psychiatrist Harley says that probably, this isn't my fault at all. Probably he's experiencing cognitive dissonance as a result of the time that he's spending with me, the time he's _enjoy_ ing with me. Because he _is_ \- he's having fun _not_ killing me, and it's completely inconsistent with his self-concept. I still feel bad for making him feel so confused.

"Sophie sure screamed nice, didn't she?" I'm not sure where I get the courage to speak, but I really can't stand this silence anymore. He turns to me slowly, and his eyebrows draw down further but the corners of his mouth tip up involuntarily for fraction of a second.

"I've heard better." He grumbles, but I can tell he's glad I enjoyed it. "Pull up here, Buster."

Our driver comes to a stop just behind another car. Peeking out the windshield, I realize we're next to the Royal Gotham Hotel. Actually, come to think of it, today just happens to be the longstanding date of the annual First Ladies of Gotham charity brunch, which is held right here in the Wayne memorial ballroom. They aren't _actual_ first ladies- just the wives and daughters of politicians, philanthropists with a healthy helping of socialites and business women on the side. They gather mostly to give speeches, drink mimosas, and later to show up in the gossip columns; my mother and sister were absolutely obsessed, which made dinner table conversation around this time of year exceedingly boring.

 _Tea party indeed._

I feel a little thrum of excitement building in my chest, and I'm about to hop out onto the sidewalk when something lands in my lap- a simple black diamond shaped mask. When I look up at J, I can see the anticipation in the way he holds his body beneath his suit, the feverish dilation of his pupils.

"Unfortunately Doctor Quin _zel_ doesn't have an invite to this event-" He drawls, "But I've decided to bring Harley Quinn as my plus one." With that, he hops out of the car, and I take a moment to secure my new mask before following him.

The first thing I notice when I step out is the pair of boots in the storefront window next to the Royal. I barely notice the crew disembarking beside us, having been drawn to the window through some strange sartorial magnetism. They're shiny black leather lace-ups with _stunning_ card suit-designs. Each heart and every diamond is a rich red, swirling patterns cut into the hide make them webbed blossoms of scarlet and coal. _And_ they look like my size…

" See something that tickles your fancy, miss Harley?"

I turn to see him smirking at me, one eyebrow raised in dare and one arm outstretched, offering me a sledgehammer. I take it, lurching slightly at the weight until I adjust for it, and then a huge smile spreads across my face as I heft it over my shoulder and turn to the window. An anticipatory tension clenches my muscles, and I poke my tongue out at the security camera, glad for my mask.

I brace myself, giving the hammer a mighty swing before dropping it so I can shield my face when the glass bursts. I hear an explosive cackle close behind me and I jump- I had nearly forgotten him in the midst of my destructive thrill. He dances through the glass like it's a rain puddle, bending forward through the sizable opening to pick up my new boots. He trots back to me, chuckling to himself and unlacing them as he goes. When he kneels and takes one of my feet in his hands, my mouth hangs open- I've been having that problem an _awful_ lot lately, but I just… Is this _happening?_ There has _got_ to be a catch. He's the clown prince of crime, not prince charming- and I am most certainly not Cinderella.

"M'lady?" He says with a smarmy expression, whipping off my shoe and tossing it over his shoulder before sliding the boot onto my foot. All the scepticism in the world wouldn't stop me from watching in dizzy captivation as his long fingers move back and forth, in and out with the laces, savouring the way his tongue pokes out the side of mouth as he concentrates. _Oh_ I am feeling very _warm_ inside, and very _fuzzy,_ and those things make me want to lean down and kiss him again- but I can' _t_ do _that_ , oh no, that is a _very_ bad idea. I look down from his face to see him bowing the laces of the second boot. When he finishes the knot he returns my gaze with a dangerous smile.

Then he pushes up on my heel so fast I don't have time to steady myself before I'm falling backwards with a spectacular flail and a whoosh of muslin. I land on my elbows, biting my cheek at the sensation of skin being sloughed off on the concrete, and I look up to find him doubled over- _meany_.

My flush is furious as I sit up to wipe my skinned elbows on the bodice of my dress, hoping that my blood will blend with the color of the fabric. It doesn't, not at all, and that makes him laugh even harder. When I huff he absolutely _howls_ , but then he offers his hand and my lips part, my cheeks yanking up the corners of my mouth without my say-so. I take his hand without another thought.

I can't help it, I'm _skipping_ when we turn down the alley.

We head into the building via delivery entrance, making our way to the service elevator through a kitchen area that's already been overrun with henchmen. When the doors open at the top, dead security guards are being carted away by more of J's men, and the stately double doors to the Wayne ballroom stretch upward before us. Beside me, J steps out of the elevator, cracking his fingers and somehow appearing taller than ever before.

" _Showtime_." He says snapping his fingers, and as he strides forward his feet don't appear to touch the ground. I trail him, keeping just a few steps behind. My clown runs long fingers over his flawless hair before pulling that beautiful gun from his pocket and flicking the safety off. He turns to me with one hand on the door.

"You look nervous, kiddo." I can hear the laughter in his voice. I nibble at my lip, nodding and shifting my gaze down to stare intently at his wing tips. "Just follow my lead." A sleek black smith & Wesson revolver suddenly blocks his shoes from view and I take it, gingerly acquainting my finger with the trigger. The warmth of his hand on the top of my head makes me feel solid enough to meet his eyes.

"And hey, _try_ to enjoy it- if we aren't having fun, what's the point?" His long fingers skim down to twirl one of my pigtails and I squirm. "Ready cupcake?"

"Ready Mistah J!" I sound more ready than I feel but there isn't a thing that could stop me from walking through those doors with him. So when he pushes them open, I follow without a thought.

" _Gooood_ morning ladies!" J raises his arm and lets off two shots the moment he steps into the ballroom.

The screaming starts immediately, followed by the discordant and premature ending of a generic piece of classical music as the band makes a collective run for the exit beside the stage. They make a comical backtrack when they spot the men coming in through the back. Women in prim little Chanel dresses hit the floor, Xanax spills from coach bags and mimosas go flying. The space is grand and far too white- white tablecloths, flowers and window dressings. For a moment I can see it all stained red, and I start to laugh because these people are _absurd_. J ignores the pandemonium, simply grinning down at the quivering mass of heiress as ten of his men file in behind us to circle the room, blocking any remaining exits. I stick close behind the bossman, barely resisting the urge to cling self-consciously to the back of his jacket. A chorus of ugly sobs and muffled begging replaces the screaming when the women begin to notice the sheer number of firearms, and the sound is somehow even more deafening.

"QUIET!" Roars the clown. He sounds like hades on the battlefield, not even remotely human and it's like he's pressed mute on the room. Even I stand to attention, though a delightful shiver runs down my spine. " _There_ , now isn't that better?" He purrs. "It was _very_ rude to interrupt me, especially since you neglected to invite me in the first place-" The gaze he sets upon his audience is one of patronising disappointment, but it shifts quickly back to his sinister rictus. "I'm _sure_ my invitation must have been lost in the mail, I mean how can you have a party without entertainment?" He saunters into the middle of the room, casually twirling his gun on his index finger. His presence is so large, so captivating that I feel like a disembodied watcher, like my senses aren't for interacting with the world, just for experiencing _him_.

"Perhaps you thought I would be bored? After all, these events can be _soo_ dull… Boredom is really the cruelest torture if you ask me. Lucky for you chickies, I'm not one to back down from a challenge- never fear, the Jokers here!" He chuckles, throwing his arms out to the sides and I let loose a lonely but exuberant burst of applause. He turns to shoot me a quick wink and I swoon, clutching a chair for support. "What I've got planned'll be a real _scream_." He's looking right at me when he says this and I'm almost relieved when his attention switches back to the crowd because I'm worried I might burst into flame.

"But first things first: I've brought along my handy-dandy jammer," He pulls a small metal box from his packet and displays it like a magicians top hat. "so you'll find your broadcast technology quite ineffective. That's right kids, no phoning a friend! You're all on your own if you want to be a millionaire- so to speak- I suppose the cash equivalent of the first place piece depends on how highly you value your life." This announcement sends a ripple of panic through the women, who remain huddled on the ground- a few of them appear to have actually passed out, which is a bit melodramatic if you ask me.

"Now don't _worry_ girls," He croons in honeyed tones, wagging a finger as he trots up onto the stage. "you still get a prize if you lose-" He snatches the mic but its purely a prop; he hasn't turned it on and his voice still fills the air.

" _Yes that's right_ , _each_ and _every_ one of you lucky losers will be going to the morgue with a brand-new _tiffany bullet!_ That's a joke by the way, Tiffany doesn't make bullets- I checked." He deadpans, and I giggle. " _Any_ way, moving _rrrr_ -ight along, I'd like to introduce you all to my lovely assistant, _cupcake_ \- lets give her a round of applause!"

I perk up and flounce forward to the foot of the stage so I'm standing just beneath him. I give a little twirl, striking a pose at the end and grinning out at the audience. The attention is like Sophie but about a million times better. It's that spotlight high I thought I could only get at gymnastics competitions, only this time the exhilaration is almost too big for my body to contain. No one claps, but then again I wasn't expecting them to- they just stare at me in abject horror. Still, the man gave an order….

Its pure instinct when I whip my revolver out to the side and squeeze off a bullet. I catch cosmetics magnate Amy Mercedes in the shoulder and she goes down with what is frankly an overly dramatic scream, but it doesn't drown out the delighted little giggle that my Puddin' lets out behind me.

"You bimbos deaf or somethin?" I shriek, laying my accent on as thick as can be. " _Mistah J said clap!_ "

A rash of nervous applause breaks out over the room, and I curtsy with a flourish and my biggest smile.

" _Awww_ , ain't she a peach?" I look over my shoulder to beam up at him and find him watching the crowd with that hungry look in his eyes. "Now, let the festivities begin- I thought we could start with a little game of pin the bowie knife on the socialite-" He bends his spider legs, crouching down to tug on of my pigtails- I'll definitely have to wear my hair like this more often. "That sound fun cupcake?"

"Sounds like a barrel a' monkeys Mistah J!"

"Alright kiddo, hows' about you pick our contestant."

"Aye aye captain!" I salute him before skipping back into the crowd, scanning for a face to catch my attention. I spot Veronica Vreeland, Silver St. cloud and Andrea Beaumont- all former flings of Bruce Wayne. Then oil heiress Camille Carson, the Elderly Mrs. Frontenac who stows her fortune mainly in precious gems, the D.A's wife Gilda Dent… honestly I don't know how to pick so I just start bopping them on the head as I hop along.

"Eenie, meenie, miney, mo, catch an heiress by the toe, if she hollers let her go, Eenie, meenie, miney, _MO!"_ The woman under my hand jumps when I shout the last word and when she looks up I feel my mouth form a little 'O' in recognition.

The doe eyed brunette isn't very old- maybe 25 now, but her face has been in the tabloids for years. Not for parties, affairs or rehab like the rest of the women here- no, Harriet Hawthorne has spent her time in soup kitchens and children's hospitals. She runs for the cure instead of getting lipo or going to pilates, builds wells in Nigeria on spring break, and drives an ugly little hybrid instead of a Lamborghini. She might be the only person here who really _doesn't_ deserve it in any way- Gotham's only untarnished angel is about to be martyred. I almost feel bad- _almost_.

Actually I just feel numb.

Truth be told I'm still not sure this is real- I mean really, _'the joker took me on a date'_ \- it sounds like bad fiction! It sounds like a fever dream but if it isn't, it's the most fun I've had in years. I try to think about going back, what it will be like to lie down in my own bed and try to get a good night sleep before work on Monday and I want to vomit. I don't want to go back to the loneliness and the pretending and the restless boredom, all the colorless struggle for what? Some fucking paper and the reassurance that I've made an honest living? Why would I want that- why would _any_ one want that when they can have vibrant joy, gut churning, heart pounding fear, and terrifying, electrifying infatuation? Sure I _liked_ psychiatry, it's a fascinating field but it was filling a void. It was a means to an end and that end was him- I always _did_ want to work in a helping profession.

I think this is what it means to find your calling.

I look up from the angel's tear streaked face to meet the devils eyes and I find him watching me too, curious. I smile at him and he smiles back, and I think that I would beg him to take my soul free of charge if he hasn't already. I'm quite sure it's always belonged to him.

I just had to realise it.

So no, I don't feel remorse when he snaps his fingers and two of his men step forward to drag Harriet to the stage. I don't feel guilty when they tie her wrists and ankles to the legs of a table tipped on its side, and I'm prancing back to perch at his feet while he's cracking his fingers, and he asking for a volunteer.

"Step right up, don't be _shy_!" He growls, and everybody shrinks back, trying to disappear into the carpet. "Awww, kiddies don't want to play anymore?" He chuckles. "How about I sweeten the pot: anyone who volunteers to come up and dice little miss Hawthorn gets to leave. That's right, no catch- just one little stab and you live." There's a shift in the crowd, a strange new uncomfortable energy and I start to giggle. I mean how could I not? Kill an angel to spare your own muddied soul- a game show fit for Gotham.

"Ooh!" He squeals. "I almost forgot- if no one volunteers within ten seconds, me and the Bozo-boys will start shooting. So what's it going to be ladies? Who wants to be a _murderer?_ " Every gun in the room cocks including mine, and each click is like the tick of a countdown clock. The first hand shoots up on the 4th second, and Doria Astor stands from her crouch with a slurry of muttered curses.

I don't think I could have picked a better volunteer.

Doria is in the latter half of middle age, though the artificial smoothness of her face might try to tell you otherwise. Her career consists of having married a very old, very rich man when she was very young, and becoming his widow soon after though his health had been improving. She has no children but for a series of unfortunate purse puppies that she replaces the moment they reach adulthood, and she appears to dress only in blood diamonds and endangered animal furs.

The Jokers' face nearly splits in half.

"Mrs. Astor!" He greets her with childlike enthusiasm as she makes her way towards the stage. "Give her a hand folks!" I clap so hard my palms sting, and the audience follows suit, apparently having learned their lesson earlier.

Doria comes to a stop several feet away from J, clearly unwilling to risk getting any closer, and he rolls his eyes, closing the distance in long strides to throw an arm over her shoulder. She flinches under his touch and I glare at her though her discomfort seems to please him.

" _So_ ," he purrs. "What ex _actl_ y makes you think your life is worth more than Harriets', _hmmm?_ "

Doria stares at the floor, her eyes twitching uselessly back and forth between nothing and more nothing until finally she gulps audibly.

"I don't-" Her voice is choked and whiney and I'm starting to wish _she_ was the one tied to the table.

" _Oh yes you do_ -" He growls, and she jumps at the sudden savagery of his expression. Just as suddenly he straightens, smiling sweetly and pulling a sizeable bowie knife from his coat with a flourish. "If you didn't, you wouldn't have volunteered to snuff her. Don't you think mother Theresa over there deserves to _know_ why you're so _excited_ to throw her under the bus?"

"I don't want to die!" Sputters the millionairess, and the Joker chuckles, throwing up his hands to press them with mocking sympathy against his cheeks.

" _Oh_ , you poor dear! J _ust_ _scared,_ are you? Why don't you tell Harriet. You tell her that you're going to end her life because you're a _coward_." With that he presses the knife into her hands and shoves her toward the bound girl. I can't see Dorias' face, but I see her start to shake as she approaches Harriet, and when the younger woman lifts her head, Doria falters. Harriet is not crying anymore, she doesn't rage or plead. She just smiles with her big blue eyes full of inexplicable sympathy.

"Its ok." She whispers. "I understand."

That's all it takes for Doria to drop the knife. She tries to back away hands up, but the henchmen step forward to block her exit.

"Ah-ta-ta!" chuckles J, tipping his head side to side. "No takesies-backsies, you're a _lifer_ now, sister. It's you or her…" He begins tossing his gun from one hand to the other and Doria is quick to retrace her steps and retrieve the knife. "I'm getting impatient, Mrs Astor…" He taunts. "Hey Punkin' pie, what happens when I get impatient?"

"Your fingers get _real_ twitchy." I grin, I climbing up onto the stage so I can join him, absolutely delighted to be brought into the game.

"They sure do." He sinks a round into the floor at Dorias' feet and she jumps back with a screech. When she dares to look back at him, she finds herself starring down the barrel and I see the intention set in her eyes. Very slowly Doria Astor turns to the angel, and buries the bowie knife in her stomach before falling to her knees. Just as slowly, the Joker starts to laugh until he's quaking and gripping my shoulder for support.

"I'm sorry!" Sobs Doria when the angel cries out, haemorrhaging with every gasp. "I was scared, I was so scared!"

"Tell it to the judge, lady." I snort, crossing my arms, and when J doubles over the giggles start to rip through me- I don't think I've ever been more proud. I loose myself in the sound of his laughter, the weight of his hand on my shoulder and the violent quaking of my own body, forgetting all about the crying woman and the bleeding angel. But when the staccato rattle of a machine gun sounds off from outside the room, I feel a jolt of cold panic. I looking to J for direction, but he doesn't seem worried- not even a little. His eyes are fervid, frantic as he scans the room with a smile big enough to split his scars

"Do- _Ha!_ _Do you trust me?"_ His chest heaves with the effort of containing his joy long enough to speak, and I have to say its contagious- my fear melts easily under his gaze.

"To the moon and back." The answer comes without a thought as I sidling up to him.

"Only that far?" He snickers, pulling me to his chest. I'm hopping for a kiss maybe or even just a nice hug- I'm not even hearing the gunfire outside anymore so I'm fairly startled when he spins me around and yanks my arms behind my back, pressing the hot muzzle of his gun to my temple. I gasp and quite possibly push my butt into his groin- I swear to _god_ I don't mean to- my face warms rapidly and I stand up straight, bottom back at a proper distance.

" _You're supposed to be scared Harley."_ He growls into my ear, and the shiver that runs down my spine is genuine.

 _Scared. Right_.

I start to whimper, quaking a bit at the knees. I can't see him but I swear I can feel him grinning.

Something hits the floor in the middle of the room- some kind of canister? Women scatter, darting for the walls and diving under tables as it starts spewing thick smoke. The henchmen are immediately on red alert as the room goes grey and opaque. I see a massive black shadow swoop down from nowhere and two men go down.

 _The bat._

This is when the real fear sets in because _I can't get caught here!_ I'm definitely not ready to be on the other side of the bars, I will _not_ do well in prison-

"You're _late_ Guano-man!" shouts J into the growing darkness. He's giddy, I can feel the giggles that seem to rip through him continuously now. " _Terrible_ manners, but I suppose I'll let it go just this once." I can hear grown men screaming now, bodies hitting walls and bones cracking, but I still can't see a thing. "Too bad we won't have time to dance, I was just leaving! Next time I'll save one _just_ for you _Batsy_ _baby_."

The only response is an unconscious thug hitting the stage at our feet, and a guttural, inhuman growl that seems _far_ too close for our safety. I start to wonder what _exactly_ the Batman is, and a cold sweat breaks out across my body.

J cackles madly at the beast in the shadow and drags me backward through the curtains and out the wings. He drops the gun from my temple and pushes me through the doors at the back of the ballroom, pulling me through the kitchens and into a service hallway. He's muttering in manic delight as he pushes me against the wall just next to the kitchen doors. He crouches down and I gasp when he pushes my skirt up to the tops of my stockings without a hint of pretence. His fingers dance for a moment across the lacy rim to toy with the bow that adorns the garter clip, and goose bumps burst across my skin.

 _Oh my_. That's all- I can't _think_ right now. I'm lost in the surreal bliss of this moment when pain flares across the bared part of my thigh. I scream with the shock, hands jumping down instinctively to grab at his wrist as black stars explode across my vision.

" _Oh yeah_ baby _,_ show Batsy how _good_ I am." His laughter is dark and thick, like a shot of adrenaline and my sight sharpens to crystal acuity as I look down at him. He's cut me, deep enough, but not to the muscle. His grin is dangerous, lascivious; his eyes are fire and threat- everything that should make me run in the other direction. Instead I loosen my fingers from his wrist and I knot them in his hair.

I cry out again when he bites down on the skin around the laceration and I nearly whine when he leans away to wipe the outpour of blood across his shirt, pants and face.

" _Good enough._ " He mutters, standing to face me.

Confused, _ecstatic_ and utterly overwhelmed I grasp onto his lapels breathing hard, but he's looking _through_ me, listening for something. Whatever it is, he seems to hear it, because his eyes light up and he yanks me aside, ripping open a garbage chute set into the wall where I had been leaning. He pauses, giving me a long look, and then he pats my cheek.

"Sorry cut and run- _heh._ It's been a _ball_ but we can't have you ending up on my side of the therapy room, now _can_ we?" He giggles. "You're the _only_ medicine I need _,_ Doc. _"_ He's cackling as he shoves me down the chute, and just before metal flap slams shut, I see his purple tails whip around. He squeals with delight.

"Batman, _Darling_! Come _in_ , I've just finished taking out the trash…"

His voice is filtering away and I'm left freezing cold in complete darkness, hurtling down on slimy metal that smells like china town on the hottest day of the summer. Despite how disgusting this is, I'm eleven again for 4.8 seconds, and I'm rocketing on the kamikaze waterslide with an exhilarated whoop.

I hit a sharp curve at the bottom, jarring my spine though I don't have time to register the pain because I'm flying, legs akimbo. I burst out into the relative light at the bottom of the chute, landing hard on a horribly squishy pile of garbage. It's all fine and good despite the bile I'm fighting down, but I shriek when I turn to climb out and find a naked blond girl about my size staring back at me. She's dead of course; the deep gash across her neck makes that perfectly clear. I giggle breathlessly the over reaction- _Just a dead girl, Harley. Don't be such a spaz._

It is really quite striking though; she looks _just_ like me- not quite as cute, but still. I notice the waiter's uniform folded neatly on her lap, and fuzzy warmth fills me though I'm still shivering. I mean how many guys will go to this much trouble to fake your death so you can keep your job? It's just so _sweet_ , and suddenly my garbage shower doesn't smell so bad. I struggle out of my dress as fast as I can, and though it's sticky and ruined with blood and liquid compost I'll be sad to part with it. The uniform is starched and scratchy as I climb into it, and I sigh, missing the whisper of expensive silk.

It takes me significantly longer to get the dead girl into my glad-rags- I'm fighting rigor mortis the whole way and it doesn't want to let go. When I finish, I feel like I've done about 50 pushups, which is definitely a personal record. I hold her hand up and give myself a little hi-five for the accomplishment before scrambling out of the garbage.

Tucking my bloody hair up under the waitresses cap, I pull it down over my battered face before speed walking out of the alley to join the throng of people rushing out of the Royal. As the adrenaline wears off the worry sets in- I have no idea whether or not J got away. Who knows what the _rat_ did to him while I was making my escape? I'm halfway home now, but I'm _really_ starting to panic, so I run the rest of the way without regard for the suspicious looks that I draw. I take the stairs two at a time and I go straight to my TV before pausing to take a breath. Frantically I scan the news channels- lots of coverage on the hostage situation, a few interviews with victims, several Batman sightings but no mention of a capture.

Which means my Joker was in good enough health to get away.

I sink into the couch, tipping my head back as the tension seeps away. I feel so overwhelmed that I can barely breathe, and my head spins, the world flaring so bright that my vision is haloed around the edges as laughter starts to come in waves, hitting my body like the relentless rattle of a snare drum. It drives me up and suddenly I'm jumping on my couch like a child, shrieking and clapping and throwing pillows until I collapse in a quivering, breathless heap. I can't stop replaying the events of the past 24 hours in my head, trying to memorialize every second, every sensation, every tiny detail and every single word he said. I blush, curling in on myself when I think about the kiss, about the way that his body crushed mine against the window. I touch my lips, pressing fingers against my bruised mouth like it might help me to _feel_ him.

Without thinking, I go to the bathroom, stripping down in front of the mirror. When my clothes lay in a puddle at my feet, I feel a strange sense of aw to stare at my naked body. The marks on my neck have faded to hazy clouds of green and yellow like chlorine gas drifting across my jugular. The rest are fresh- livid reds, blues and purples, and every single color belongs to him, his artwork all over _me_.

I wrap my arms around myself, spinning and swaying in my lovesick delirium until I collapse on my bed, feeling _everything_ so deeply that I don't know if I'm about to cry or if I'll just keep laughing.

 _Misses J-_ I giggle. _Harley_ _Quinn + Puddin 4ever._

 _ **Authors Note 2:** _ Here I am at the bottom again- Again, I just wanted to have a lil discussion.

In writing this chapter, I wanted to explore the kind of dynamic that J and H might enjoy in the future, mostly because I think it plants seeds for J and stops him from getting rid of her later on. He's equal parts surprised and impressed that she's survived this long and that she's just taken her two first kills in relative stride- not to mention she treats him very differently than anyone else does, and that confuses him. Harleen Quinzel is turning out to be much more interesting than he thought she would be and he can't resist giving her a push and watching her spin.

I don't think this line of thought is entirely conscious, but then again I don't think he often feels the need to have reasons for anything he does. If it feels good and he likes it, then in principle he'll do it. That logic runs into trouble when it comes to Harley though because as she's already figured out, he doesn't know why he's having fun _with_ her and he really doesn't know why he liked kissing her. He's always considered himself above basic sexual attraction and his discomfort with that is keeping him from really thinking about it. So denial is the name of the game! Who's to say how long that game will last or what will happen when it gets old?


	15. Chapter 15

**Authors Note:** Happy Holidays guys! Whatever you celebrate and whenever you do it, I hope its awesome and full of laughter. If you're alone like me this year then I'm with you in spirit and so are our murder clowns xoxoxo

Just to dispel any worries brought on by that title, Harley will not be getting shot away in a rocket or pushed out of a window (yet). She's just being melodramatic. There won't be much Joker in the next two chapters- they are primarily setting up for a very big event in chapter 17, which is filled to the brim with clown. This chapter focuses on Harley realizing what it feels to be away from him now that she sort of knows what its like to be with him. It also has a fair amount of Ivy (don't worry J, she's not going to steal yo girl) so I hope you guys enjoy her! I wanted to take some time to develop that friendship and answer some questions I've always had about ivy. Also heads up, some of the things that will happen in the next few chapters reference details from older chapters, I'm sorry if that ends up being confusing.

Also, we are nearing the end of this fic? I write in patches and I had chapter 16 mostly finished before chapter 15, which means you'll be getting two chapters relatively close together! After that theres only one chapter left- I honestly can't believe that I've managed to actually produce something semi-coherent and I just want to thank everyone who has been reading, you guys are fucking awesome and you all deserve a million hugs and hyena kisses.

 **Chapter 15: Laugh? I nearly died**

 _God,_ I hate Mondays.

I iced my face for hours last night- it's still lumpy and swollen but I'm wearing about ten pounds of concealer so at least it's the right colour. I told Leland it was just allergies. I don't know if she believed me, but then again she has biggerz things to deal with as acting warden.

How did I not realize how _bo_ ring this all is?

I mean really, _really_ boring. Nothing is holding my focus, not even my patients- and _yeah_ I feel kinda bad about that, but how the hell is compulsive hygiene or a god-complex delusion supposed to hold my attention after what I've seen? I feel like up until this weekend I had been watching life on TV instead of living it, and now that I'm back on the couch it just isn't enough anymore. I make it through Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday- all the way to Thursday before I _really_ get cagey. I've taken to pacing in my office when I'm not with a patient, marching back and forth to wear anxious tracks into the threadbare carpet. I know I should be doing all the paper work I've fallen behind on, but I start to feel itchy when I sit for too long and then my eyes jump around on the page and I don't get anything done anyway. I know I need a distraction, an outlet. I keep hoping I'll get a call from the Aviary so I can go kick some ass (or get my ass kicked- either way, really) but the phone stays silent, and Selina's out of town or something, I don't know. She's not picking up.

What I _really_ need is for him to show up. I keep coming up with ridiculous scenarios where he crashes in through my window or I find him sitting at my kitchen table when I come home from work. Logically I know he's busy- probably preparing for his next escapade- but I can't help wondering why I'm not a part of it. Why do _I_ have to go back to boring old Arkham, why can't I run away to the circus? I think about that too- what might happen if I _could_ find him, if I decided to leave it all behind and join him for good… at this point I can't think of anything I want more.

So far though, he hasn't shown up and I have no way to find him or contact him, so I'm stuck here except for when I'm day dreaming. I do that a lot now- I go to my happy place and I do happy things. It just so happens that my happy place is anywhere with him, and it doesn't really matter what we're doing, although I definitely have a few favourite activities. The problem is that the day dreams are only enough until I leave them, and then I'm only left with how much I _don't_ have.

I've taken to sleeping in the fort every night. It still smells like him.

There's a dying cactus on my windowsill. It's been here for about a year now, I bought it when I first got the job. I've never been much of a green thumb, but I figured a cactus had to be impossible to kill and I thought I needed some colour in my office. It was plump and bright green when I bought it but somewhere along the way it turned a dingy sort of drought-green and shrivelled into itself like a spiny raisin. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have killed the un-killable. I don't know why I'm only noticing it now- I'm moping, thinking about how I should be in session with J when it catches my eye.  
And then I think of Ivy.

Poor beautiful, brilliant Ivy, who is locked away in the basement and shrivelling away like my neglected cactus. I wonder if she's been given appropriate food or if they've stopped trying to force her into the synthetic asylum uniform. I wonder if she's spoken to anyone other than Abby and Leland, and I start to think that maybe I could be someone for her to talk to. On some level I know the urge is selfish, I'm looking for a distraction but I manage to convince myself that this will be equally beneficial for Ms. Isley.

It only takes 15 minutes with Leland to get approval- she almost seems relieved that I've asked. I wouldn't be surprised if the combination of warden's duties and regular patient therapy is becoming a strain, and while she makes it abundantly clear that I am not taking over her role as Isley's primary psychiatrist, she has few qualms about giving me clearance.

So here I am, heading down to special containment with my special new pass card and my bagged lunch. I don't know why, but when I step out of the elevator into the main hallway I feel the need to tip toe. I know that the beings down here are not monsters, not truly. They are people with special adaptations, and they don't deserve to be treated any differently- I learned that in my work at Belle Reve, but it doesn't stop the guttural fear that I feel when a bloodied roar permeates the door I know to be hiding Waylon Jones. I move much faster after that, wasting no time entering Isley's unit when Abby opens the door. She seems mildly surprised to see me, but with Leland's Ok, she moves me through the security check in no time, and sends me down the elevator with a salute and a hopeful grin.

When the elevator begins to move, my palms start sweating. Oh there's no getting around it, I'm nervous as hell right now but I _need_ this. I need _something_ or else I'm going to lose my mind. When the doors open I only see the sunlight at first, warm honeyed drifts of it, floating down from the skylight like a window to the heavens themselves.

Isley lies bare and prostrate in a puddle of light so pure she should be glowing, but instead she seems to be fading. Her lips are dry and cracked, eyelids fluttering reflexively they way they do when it's a struggle just to remain conscious. Its noticeably warmer in here, so at least she isn't still freezing, but her ribs have begun to make ridges at the surface of her flesh, her cheeks pale and sunken. I can feel the sudden sourness of my expression, but I don a cheery smile to hide it.

"Hi Miss Isley!" I try to make my voice soft and friendly so as not to alarm her, but there's no response, it's like I haven't spoken. "Pamela?" Zip, Zilch, nada. "...Ivy? You know I'm probably not supposed to call you that, but I'm not your therapist so it can be our little secret." Ivy shifts slightly, but otherwise she continues to ignore me."...Anyway, do you mind if I eat my lunch with you? My office is pretty gloomy and you've got so much sunlight down here." The red head releases a heavy sigh and I feel my shoulders slump in disappointment.

This isn't exactly going as well as I'd hoped- maybe I should just leave her alone, she clearly doesn't want my company. Then again she wouldn't be the first moody serial killer I managed to sway, now would she? Maybe this is my talent. 'Dr Harleen Quinzel: murderer whisperer'- ok so the title could use some work, but the point is that a little cold shoulder from a convicted killer is no reason to call it quits. So instead of retreating, I put on my biggest grin and I pull the waiting area chair up to the glass so I can take a seat.

"Thanks!" I chirp, like she's invited me to join her- this actually merits an eye roll. Lucky me!

We sit in silence for the rest of the hour. I eat my Mac and cheese and she continues to lie on her back and ignore me, but at this point I've committed, so when I pack up to leave I give her a wave and a chipper "See you tomorrow!" and I do. I keep coming everyday and while she's busy pretending I'm not there, I'm busy watching her. I notice little things, like how much paler she looks on a cloudy day, the wistful way she watches rain hit the glass ceiling so far above her. I notice she's continued to lose weight and that the stack of botany text in her cell is collecting dust.

According to Abby she won't even touch the books, which means she literally does nothing all day. I can't imagine that's comfortable for a former researcher, and at first I don't get it until I remember that books are made of paper, and paper is made of trees. Hey, I wouldn't want to read a novel typed out on my friends skin either, but she needs intellectual stimulation.

My more pressing concern is that she's wasting, so I ask Abby about that too. Apparently she's hasn't eaten anything but meat and even then she only picks at it, which surprises me. For some reason I expected her to be a strict vegan but now that I think about it, that _might_ count as cannibalism. If I ever get her to start talking, I'll ask. Either way, Leland clearly hasn't done a thing to get her an appropriate meal plan, which is ridiculous- if she was kosher we wouldn't be trying to force feed her bacon! If we don't do anything she'll starve to death and that is a pointless way to die. I'll pay for her organic free-range meat myself if I have to.

I find Leland in the warden's office under mounds of paper work. She's got dark rings around her eyes and a coffee stain on her wrinkled white blouse. I doubt she's slept at all in the last twenty-four hours.

"What is it Harleen?" The question is dry and monotone, and while I'm sympathetic to her plight, I'm going to use it to my advantage. I bet I could get her to agree to almost anything right now just by promising to leave her alone.

"I'd like to talk about Miss Isley. I think she needs to have her dietary needs re-evaluated. And I think we should get her a kindle. "

She shuffles her papers without looking up, scribbling out signature after signature with a cramped hand.

"Look, Harleen, I've been working on getting approval to allocate more funds to her meal plan, but it's a hard case to argue! We've already spent so much on her facility-"

" Ask Bruce Wayne."

"…I'm sorry?"

"He's loaded! And he paid for the Joker's extra guard detail, and the full cows that Waylon Jones eats, it would be _nothing_ to him-"

" _Harleen!"_ Barks Joan. I can see she regrets lashing out at me so I decide to take advantage of it by turning my head down and curling my shoulders in. She immediately softens, setting down her pen to give me her full attention.

"I'll talk to him at the next board meeting." She allows and I immediately brighten. "What was it you said about a kindle?"

I try not to laugh at the look on her face.

"Abbey said she hadn't touched any of the books in her cell. I think that might be because they're made of plant fiber- imagine how weird it would be to read a book made of human skin?" Leland appears to be considering this for the first time and her shudder is promising. "I just thought that some sort of e-reader might be more appropriate. "

"That's a great idea, Harleen, I love that you're thinking like this but there's still the issue of funds." Joan sighs, her mouth having gone tight.

"What if I bought it?" I know it's a risk to ask- it could be considered inappropriate behaviour for a psychiatrist but I'm hoping she'll see it as evidence of my dedication to the asylum.

"Well…" She begins like she's going to say no, but then she seems to weigh it, tipping her head to the side. "It would be highly irregular but I don't see why not, we can consider it a donation."

"Ok. Thank you, Joan." I carefully control the breadth of my triumphant grin."I really think this is going to make a difference."

I go to the nearest best buy immediately after work and pick up a brand new kindle. I know she won't have an Internet connection, so I download a few books on botanical biochemistry and environmentalism, then I log into Gotham U's VPN and add a few newer articles to her collection. I'm not really sure what stuff she likes so I go for a broad selection in hopes of getting a hit.

Feeling better than I have all week, I pour myself a glass of wine and put on an Elvis record. I've been listening to a _lot_ of Elvis lately. Every day when I get home from work, I take off my heels and I lace up my new favourite boots. It's the little things that make me feel close to him.I scour the news nightly from the warmth of our fort, but so far he's given me nothing. I _hope_ that's a good thing, but I worry that it is very, _very_ bad. It's been a weeks and he's still missing.

I wake up at the same time every morning and I eat eggs and soggy toast. I Get to work early and I eat lunch with Ivy. I go home at the end of my shift and I watch TV without seeing it until 10, at which point I go to bed and I sleep dreamlessly until my alarm goes off at 6 am, then I get up even though I don't feel like I've slept at all. At this point being awake doesn't feel all that different from sleeping. Its like the ghost has left the machine and there's nothing left but coding to keep me going through the motions. And yes- I _do_ know the symptoms of depression. _I'm a fucking psychiatrist._

A few days in I thought I could handle it. I kept the sadness at home, and I put on a nice, smiley mask for work. I pretended to engage with my patients and I wrote sunny reports for Leland to look over. But now my face hurts from the strain, my questions are empty and monotone, and my reports are lackluster and sparse- because what's the point?

 _I'm. Not. Interested._

Ivy provides occasional distraction but she still wont even _talk_ to me, and Ash does her best to get me out of my apartment but I'm ornery and she's busy re-tailoring all of Tavis's old costumes to fit the new Johnny. Even if she did have more time it wouldn't matter, because it isn't her I need. The moment I see his name in the paper or his face on tv- or lets face it, the moment I'm left along for a _se_ cond- I'm absolutely miserable.I know its ridiculous- you'd think I'd never been dumped before. Really, I should feel lucky that it happened before I got even more attached- it was unhealthy, obsessional, illogical, dangerous, I _know_ that.

But I _miss_ him.

I miss how illicit it felt to laugh with him, and the way my pulse raced when he made a threat, and the way he toyed at his scars with his tongue. I want to see him push his hand through his hair and tell me that I'm being silly. And I really, _really_ want him to kiss me again. Maybe we could also go for round 2 on that choking thing too, that was fun. The memory makes me warm and endlessly tingly until I drop into a pit of acute longing. The pain is so real that it knots my gut and blurs my vision and suddenly I can't get enough air. My limbs are riddled with pins and needles, and my skin is too tight and then it's too far away, and suddenly I'm shrinking back into myself and nothing makes sense anymore. I squeeze my eyes shut as the world constricts to a tunnel of static, and when I open them I'm not in the fort anymore.

I try to sit up but I smack my forehead against something hard, and when I raise my hand to rub what I'm sure will turn into a nasty bruise, I find it wet with blood. I scramble out from under my bed, slipping on a pile of candy as I try to get to my feet. I'm still wearing my pyjamas, but I've got my special boots on. An attempt to reach down and take them off reveals that the blood was likely mine, as there is a sizeable shard of glass imbedded in my upper right arm. _This is not good, nope, not good at a_ ll- I'm really fucking losing it.

I rush to the bathroom so I can clean my wound, but all I can think about is the fact that I've just blacked out. This could mean schizophrenia, a brain tumour, encephalitis, a dissociative disorder- nothing good. Not to mention I could have done anything while I was out.

When I've got my arm bandaged up I walk numbly back into my bedroom and survey the damage. Not only is there enough candy on the floor to supply a small town for Halloween, but I've also brought home the worlds scariest clown stuffie- honestly, its so creepy its borderline cute. Judging by the hour and the broken glass I'm assuming I stole this shit and I _know_ I should clean it up, I should try to figure out what else I've done, but I _can't_. I'm shaking and I feel cold all over so I just grab the clown and I go back to the fort.

Probably nothing to worry about- a little dissociative fugue never hurt anyone, right? _Ha_.

On Monday at lunch I make my way down to Ivy's facility with the kindle and my note from Leland. Abby greets me with her usual warmth, and takes my note behind her desk to file it away. An envelope on her desk catches my eye as I follow her over. The return address lists a fertility clinic in south Gotham known for taking on the hopeless, one I know to be founded by a fellow GCU alumnus, Maria Luis. I feel a twinge of sadness for Abby- if she's seeing Luis then she must be desperate. Doctors like that don't come cheap.

"It's so good of you to do this, Dr. Quinzel." Abby's eyes are bright and thankful when she straightens. "Pamela has been through... a _lot_ , and I know she's done some terrible things, but she still deserves sympathy."

"I think so too." I nod. "And I'm happy to know she has someone like you to care for her."

"Of course!" She says it so earnestly that I crack a crooked smile. "Well, I don't want to take up any more of your lunchtime- you can go on ahead through the scanner."

The moment I step into the booth and brace for the spray, I start to worry about the kindle and I continue to worry all the way down the second elevator. I try to convince myself that shutting me out is the worst thing she can do, but I'm not too sure. Either way I'm standing at the glass now, and on the other side she sits, watching me.

"Hi Ivy." My smile is nervous and she narrows her eyes. "I- um, I noticed that you weren't reading your books, and I thought maybe that might be because, y'know- they're made of paper- so I bought you a kindle!" I hold up the gift like a child brandishing a Christmas toy. I quickly compose myself and place the kindle in the slot used to deliver her food and medication. Her eyes flick to the offering, then back up to me. Her eyebrows pinch together, and I can tell she isn't yet willing to break her silence. "I wasn't sure what you like to read so I just picked a bunch of things so you can test it out- you could give me a list maybe? I can download whatever you want. And you don't- you don't have to use it. It was just an idea."

She tips her head back and stares pointedly at the ceiling. I sigh and take my seat to start unpacking my lunch, resigned to eating in silence _again_. I've got my P.B &J sandwich halfway to my mouth when I catch motion in my periphery. Ivy is unfolding, getting to her feet and taking a few long slow strides to pluck the electronic from the delivery slot. She paces back to the centre of the floor and sits with her back to me. I hear the opening jingle as she switches the device on, and I take a very satisfied bite of my sandwich.

"…Thank you." A little grumble precedes her words, like they were physically difficult to say. I have to hold back a triumphant fist pump- a begrudging thank you from her is as good as a standing ovation.

"I'm happy to help." I can't help but beam.

She offers no response, but I'm happy with today's progress. I'll push for new territory tomorrow.

I'm feeling _good_ when I leave Ivy's facility- I am, really. I feel all successful and accomplished and stuff, exactly how you're _supposed_ to feel when you complete a personal goal, like getting an anti-social plant lady to talk to you. So why am I getting that tight feeling in my throat? Why is my breath shaky and why the hell am I starting to leak? I should feel like a million bucks, I should be jumping for joy! Instead I'm running for the parking lot, clutching my bag to my chest like a lunatic and swallowing hard to force down the tears but they just keep coming- _oh_ _god_!

I can't get my key in my car door, and my vision is only getting blurrier. I just want to hurl my bag at the ground and punch through the drivers side window, but I cant do that in the parking lot- I must look like a total mess, I need to get _out_ of here, but when I finally get the door open my eyes are so fucking watery I won't be able to drive- the floodgates open and I slam the door shut to trap the noise before I release a horrific wail and slam my forehead into the steering wheel. Why is this happening? Why do I still feel so _empty_? It's him, its _him_ \- he's the one, _he_ did this!

I'm breaking, I'm _broken_ and its his fault, _he_ found me and he fixed me and then he abandoned me and now I'm broken! I pound my fists against the dashboard, my body rocking with the force of this pain and he's all I can see, he's everything but he's gone and I can't handle it. Before I would have been ecstatic about Ivy, I would have been proud, and I am but it feels like watery coffee- you know there's something there but its just a shade, and in its pallor you end up more disappointed than you would be if you didn't have coffee at all.

 _God_ , I wish I had never met him! No I don't. Fuck, I _really_ don't- the thought makes my gut clench, and forces a long, high whine from my throat. I start feeling those pins and needles again, and my vision goes to static so I scrunch my eye shut tight.

"FUCK!" I scream at the windshield, I grab my keys without thinking and jam the jagged edge against my upper thigh. Suddenly I can breath again, my mind clearing for a few seconds in the endorphin shock of sudden pain. Ok, ok, I can think. I need to get out of here, I need to dry my stupid eyes and go home so that no one will _ever_ see me like this- there's a knock on the window and my blood goes to ice.

"Doctor Quinzel?"

Even muffled through the glass, I recognize the voice. Oh god- of _course_. I tuck my head down, swallowing and sniffing furiously though I know there's no way to hide my raw, red eyes, and I roll down my window.

"Hello Bradley." I don't know why but I try to smile even though I know it just looks sad. The pity on his face is so clear that another sob clamps down on my larynx and I let out a rather ungainly whimper.

"Are you... are you al _right_ , Doc?" What am I doing? Why am I still here- I should have driven away it the moment my eyes started watering instead of having a breakdown in the parking lot like some awful, unprofessional, _idiotic_ \- "I, uh… I don't know if it helps at all, but you was special to him." I nearly choke- Is he talking about who I _think_ he's talking about?

Bradley looks extremely embarrassed, tomato red around the center of his face and staring at his work boots, but he still doesn't walk away. I clear my throat with too much aggression; squeezing the steering and watching my knuckles go white.

"Who?" I want it to sound nonchalant but my voice cracks and I wince. Bradley's eyebrows jump up in confusion before a look of conspiratorial understanding comes over his face, and his disproportionately small mouth makes an 'o'.

"My _friend_ ," He says "the guy's a real nut job, hot-tempered- _definitely_ an acquired taste. Known him a real long time, seven years if you'd believe it." Wait- Bradley has been the Jokers personal guard for _seven_ _years_? How the hell has _he_ survived this long? He chuckles at my awed expression, bashfully shoving his pudgy hands into his pockets. "Anyways, this guy, he's kinda… _picky_ about people, I ain't never seen him show interest in anyone other than Bat- _uh_ , Barry, his um, his other friend. But then you showed up and he started talking about you. It was 'Doc Harley did this, Doc Harley said that'- a lot of the time he was mad about it, but he cared which was new." The older man has become strangely impassioned during his speech, and he seems to realize that now as his eyebrow scrunch together. "Uh, I just thought that might cheer ya' up."

"Um," I sniffle, still rather damp but suddenly beaming. "Thanks, Bradley. You're a real good guy." He smiles, averting his eyes as he nods goodbye and turns to walk away. A few soggy giggles bubble up through the loosening knot in my throat- I'm _special_.

I am, I _knew_ it- he talked about me to Bradley! He _cared_! I start to giggle as a lightness overtakes me and the knot in my throat uncoils. He likes me, a _lot_ \- why else would he have kissed me like than? He wouldn't look at me the way he does or talk to me the way he does- he wouldn't have taken me out if he didn't like me; he's taken an interest in me, I'm _special_ to him- I just need to have faith.

On Tuesday I find Ivy laying on her stomach, the kindle illuminating her face as her eyes scan rapidly left to right. _Yahtzee_.

"Good afternoon!"

She starts, red hair whipping through the air when her head snaps in my direction.

"Dr. Quinzel." Her acknowledgment is low and monotone, but it nearly stops me in my tracks.

"So… ya found somethin' to read?"

Her nod is curt as she turns back to her e-reader and I force myself to take my seat so I don't betray my enthusiasm by bouncing like a toddler. _Push for new territory, Harley._ I want to but I suddenly find myself at a loss for words, so I stuff half a cookie in my mouth, which actually gives me an idea…

"Hey, can I ask you a question?"

"If you _must_." She sighs, dragging her eyes slowly up to me. I chew on my lip for a moment, trying to find a non-offensive way to ask this, but I've got nothing so I decide to just go for it.

"Is it cannibalism if you eat plants?" Ivy's eyes bulge before they narrow with her glare. She opens her mouth and then closes it, crossing her arms over her chest and I try not to laugh at her uncommon moment of uncertainty.

"… _No-_ " She starts strong but she seems to fumble her confidence in the answer. " I don't know."

"Oh, ok." I shrug, and a crooked grin sneaks through my straight face. "I didn't expect you to be such a… meat lover."

"I'm _not_." Ivy wrinkles her nose and she looks adorable but she's also clearly quite furious- I should back off but I'm really curious now and my mouth is faster than my sense of self-preservation.

"Abby says it's the only thing you'll even touch."

"Yes, well I refuse to support the systematic enslavement and _murder_ of marginalized species." She's put on an extremely condescending faux-casual tone that doesn't nearly match the rage in her sneer.

"I'm sorry?" I sound a bitch choked as I absently fiddle with the now too-tight collar of my throat.

"Where do you think it comes from? The _salad_ they serve here- that isn't just food, it's _carnage_. Those were living, breathing organisms, grown without care or love- plumped, plucked, polished and dismembered for _your_ consumption." She snarls like I'm personally responsible for the entire commercial agricultural system. "Animals..." She spits. "You all think you're so different, so much more worthy, and you just _take take take_ \- you _never_ _ask_!" her voice is rising, her eyes going wild as they grow wider. There's a knotted tension in her posture now, a defensive bracing. "My babies understand that we are _all_ part of a system and they're willing to give themselves up to help that system thrive. What humans have done to that system- It's dis _gusting_. I don't partake in that brand of privatized slaughter anymore." She shakes her head and rolls her shoulders back, releasing some of that taught energy and restoring her former poise without relinquishing any of her venom. " _I've_ developed enough empathy to know that one must _ask_ before taking."

I won't bother to point out that she doesn't extend that same empathy to members of the animal kingdom. It's quite obvious that she doesn't think we deserve it. There is a clear threat in the way that she watches me now, and I have to suppress the urge to shrink back. She purses her lips, chagrined by my feigned lack of reaction. I have to keep talking- I'm not leaving while she's still mad at me like this. It takes a moment to decide how to proceed. I think about trying to change the topic but I want her to know that my curiosity is genuine, which means I can't just sweep this under the carpet.

"When you ask them… how do you know that they've said yes?" I anticipate the weakness in my voice, moving closer to compensate. She considers me for a moment, and her eyes unabashedly roam my face before she appears to settle, and the curve of her plump pink lips softens.

"They tell me. I can hear them inside, I can feel them." The reply is impassioned and defensive, like she thinks I'm looking for a hole to poke in her argument.

"What does it feel like when they talk to you?"

She smiles suddenly, sad and heavy with yearning. The reaction seems to surprise her, and though she appears to try and school it away, it doesn't disappear completely.

"Its not what it feels like, its what it _is_. When I'm out there... I don't end with my body. It is complete connection, I know every root, every stem and flower and the same light that blesses their leaves warm my skin. They know my needs and I know theirs because there is no difference between us."

I try to imagine how might feel to be part of a collective consciousness, to know physicality and awareness that is distinct from your own. I've always thought of the self as a solitary unit- molded and influenced by environment, knotted up in social webs but ultimately isolated by the individual nature of the human mind.

Ivy transcends that.

No wonder she's moody! She personally experiences every harvest and clear-cut, every set of initials carved into the trunk of an oak, and every forest fire started by a pack of drunken red-necks on a hunting trip. One might expect her to be thankful for the reprieve from such constant suffering that this this concrete box offers, but I think the segregation and the ignorance it forces are more painful. To be honest I'm surprised that she can function on the outside with that amount of sensory input- she wasn't born meta, after all. The human mind should not be able to integrate or organize so much simultaneous data but she's adapted to it somehow… her bran scans must be absolutely confounding.

I realize that I've been staring too long and she looks weary, so I pop open my mouth and I push out the first words that come up.

"You're fricken' awesome." I redden, instantly regretting the wonderstruck statement. Ivy's brows remain in their nearly perpetual V, but her mouth wavers in its arch. Otherwise she refuses to acknowledge my compliment.

"Why are you here?" The question is earnest and there is something desperate about the tension in her lips before she hides behind her hair. The display of vulnerability is both heartbreaking and beautiful, and I wonder what it is about my persistence that she finds so threatening.

"I already told you- you've got lovely sunlight down here. And I want to be friends." Its an easy answer and its comes with a smile.

"Yes. The sunlight is beautiful." She peers up from behind red velvet curtains, eyes narrowed. Then she blinks once and straightens, going back to her reading. She doesn't speak again, but her gaze does flicker in my direction when I stand to leave.

After work I drive around for a while because I don't want to go home to my empty apartment, but I realize that I have nowhere to go, so I give up. Thirty minutes later I'm in my sweatpants with a pint of mint-chocolate chip and a bottle of wine, trying desperately not to think about how much better ice cream tasted with J in Sophie's apartment.

Maybe I _was_ special, but what if he's decided he's done with me? What if he's bored- what if _I_ bored him? I really thought he enjoyed hanging out with me, but I was just so awestruck… maybe I was wrong. The thought threatens to crush me. I go through my ritual of checking the news, and when I'm thoroughly depressed, I switch to the cartoon network to watch fern gully. Maybe it's the wine, but I start to get a little misty eyed watching Crysta the fairy fight for her rainforest home, and I think about Ivy.

I wonder if she's seen this movie, I think she would like it. Maybe she watched it when she was little? I try to imagine a little ivy and I picture a tiny red haired girl with golden-brown freckles. She looks _innocent_ , and I wonder for the millionth time what happened in that lab .

Leland calls a meeting in the staffroom on Wednesday morning to introduce the new warden. Agnes Brieve is stark and beautiful, her face all sharp lines and angles, accentuated by the pallor of her skin and her slicked blond hair. She wears a black pantsuit and a white oxford buttoned all the way up and she stands with a stiff and perfect posture, hands clasped behind her back and her chin tipped up with a sort of pragmatic superiority. I feel the muscles clench around my spine when her hawk-like gaze rakes over my pencil skirt. She switches her glare to the clock as the rest of us file in, and she clears her throat when the big hand strikes twelve.

"Good afternoon." Her tone of voice suggests anything but, and a sharp Norwegian accent curves her vowels. "I am Dr. Agnes Brieve, and I will be your new warden as recent events have led the the department of corrections to commission a reform." She takes this moment to stare us down like she expect a few impromptu confessions. "Leniency cannot be tolerated anymore; this institution was built as a promise to keep the people of this city safe from the criminally insane and you have failed. Perhaps I sound harsh but I consider the loss of life to be inexcusable- I want to _protect_ you. In my work at Slabside Penitentiary I learned to understand these people; I understand that they are in need of intense psychiatric care, I know that they have needs that must be met. I also know that they are ruthless, resourceful, and extremely charming if they need to be. As healthcare professionals working in such populations we must be soldiers as well as doctors, we must be just as ruthless as the people that we care for. We must always err on the side of caution, because our mistakes cost lives. As your Warden I will always be fair and just. I will always consider your health and safety my first priority, but I expect hard work, honesty, and total loyalty in return." She pauses, pursing her lips and somehow making it seem like she might have paused to allow us to catch up. "I know that it can be strange to adjust to new management, so I encourage you to make an appointment with my assistant at your earliest convenience if you wish to discuss any of the changes I will be instituting. That will be all, please return to your work." With that, Agnes turns on her heel and strides out of the room, her assistant in tow.

Leland looks slightly uncomfortable as she watches the new warden walk away, but she tries to hide it behind a smile and a nod before she walks back to her office. I have to say I don't blame her- Warden Brieve is a truly unnerving woman. Her eyes are cold and flat, and I do not trust her, but I don't have to worry about it for too long before my mind drifts back to him. His absence is a leeching disease but the thought of him is my happy place; It's where I escape to when I cant handle the world, and I know that's cheesy and maybe sort of pathetic, but it works. He is both cause and cure for my anxiety.

Over the next few days though, things begin to change. It took me a while to really notice- I haven't been the most perceptive lately, but when my low threat patients started showing up for sessions in cuffs I couldnt really ignore it. There's new batch of guards too, ex-military I think. Some of them seem fine, but most of them are excessive with the frisks and they look at me like I'm a piece of makes me want to scoop their eyes out. Based on what I've been overhearing, sedative prescriptions have doubled while recreation time has been cut in half. I know this is a prison but it's also a _hospital_ \- staff safety may be a priority for Warden Breive, but patient recovery certainly isn't. And if she's this worked up about the Joker when he's gone, how bad will it be when he gets back?

Today the clouds hang fat and low, waiting to overflow, and the light in Ivy's cell is cold and grey. She sits cross-legged on her cot and her eyes are closed but I can tell she's awake by the way her brow furrowed when I entered the visiting area.

"Have you ever seen Fern gully?" It's the first thing that comes out of my mouth, and she sighs, begrudgingly opening her eyes to give me her attention.

"Is that a place?" She asks dryly, sighing as she reaches her arms up above her head to stretch. It strikes me as absurd that she of all people hasn't seen that movie.

"No, it's a movie!" I fail to keep the disbelief from my expression an Ivy cocks a brow. "It's about a fairy that lives in the rainforest, but the humans are trying to clear-cut it and they chop down this one tree and it releases an evil spirit that feeds on pollution." I deliver this synopsis with all the fervor of a presidential speech, but Ivy appears unmoved if slightly confused.

"Why are you telling me this?" She raises a chlorophyll green hand and curls her long fingers to inspect her nails.

"I watched it last night and I thought you might like it." I bite my lip on the end of the sentence, feeling oddly vulnerable after such a meaningless admission. She watches me for a long time before she speaks.

"… You're very odd for a Doctor."

"Thanks." I try to make it sound sarcastic and nonchalant but I feel a bit like I did when nobody came to my seventh birthday.

"Do you often watch children's television?" Her expression is blank but I can tell by the timber of her husky voice that she's teasing me, and a tentative smile tempers my flushed cheeks. Poison Ivy is _teasing_ me.

"Hey!" I quip with perhaps too much conviction."Fern Gully is an extremely moving film for people of _all_ ages." I pound my fist against the arm of my chair like it's a gavel and Ivy raises her eyebrows. "And cartoons make me happy, they remind me of being a kid. Didn't you have a favourite show when _you_ were little?"

"I didn't really watch much Tv." Her expression becomes strangely light for the innocuous statement, and the unspoken emotion tugs at my curiosity.

"Where did you grow up?"

"…Louisiana." She says it in a breath, the word lonely and reverent. "Until I was sixteen. I lived with my grandparents."

"You don't have an accent." _Did you have to work to get rid of it?_

"I lost it when I moved out of state." She shrugs like she doesn't care, but she looks away and its obvious that we have this in common.

"Why did you leave?" I don't know if I'm pushing too hard, but I don't want her to stop talking. She purses her lips, flicking a sheath of garnet over her should and baring the right side of her chest. No, I am definitely not going to stare at her boob, even though its just completely out right now. _I'm not creepy._

"Where did _you_ grow up, Dr Quinzel?" Her lips are parted in something close to a smile, but it shows too much tooth. She thinks she's going to turn this on me, push me out of my comfort zone. It might work if I hadn't already been thoroughly vetted by the reigning champ.

"Brooklyn." I lean back in my chair, returning her thinly veiled sneer with my most laid-back smile. "I left for school."

"You dropped your accent too." She's quick to point this out, but I saw it coming so I just shrug.

"I suspect we had similar reasons, but I have to admit I don't understand why you're still covering yours up." Her smile wavers slightly and I take the opportunity to lean forward.

"What are you talking about?" Her face barely moves when she says it.

"Well _I_ changed my accent so that people would take me seriously, but you don't have a problem with that anymore. People _definitely_ take you seriously- they wouldn't have you locked up like this if they didn't. You should feel _free_ -"

"I'm literally in a _cage_." She snaps, flicking her gaze away and I nearly falter, because she's right. She's a prisoner, I know that. But she doesn't have to be, not really, not like I do- she already has the _real_ kind of freedom. They can lock her up but they can't tell her how to act; they don't have anything to bargain with.

"Only a physical one!" Theres a note of hysteria in my voice that I hope hasn't bled into my expression. Still, I can see that she's already dismissed me and I need her to understand how _lucky_ she is. "Who do you have to impress Ivy? Not your teachers, not your supervisors, no editors, no research grant committees and no board members- you've stepped outside of that. They _already_ expect the worst from you right? So you can give them whatever you want and you don't have to care how they take it- _no_ _one should have to care-"_ I realize suddenly that I'm on my feet with my hands up against the glass. My face heats though my body goes ice cold as I drop my hands and step back.

"You sound like you're speaking from experience Dr. Quinzel." Ivy has gotten closer too, eyes narrowing in curiosity and unconcealed suspicion.

"It's…um," I clear my throat, suddenly finding a million tiny flaws in my nail polish. "It's a theory."

"Oh, of _course_." She looks smug now, but her smugness comes in a needling subtlety, just a slight pursing of her lips at the end of the sentence. She knows that she's hit a nerve and she's getting back at me. I have to say, vengeance looks good on her.

"You know I've always liked southern accents?" I tip my head to the side with a grin when I say it. I don't break eye contact first, she does.

I'm on my way out at the end of the day when I happen upon the crowd of scandalized staff members in the hallway. I consider just walking past them because I really am in a terrible mood, but that doesn't staunch my curiosity, so I head over to one of the nurses I recognize from the I.C.U.

"Hey!" I wave, putting on a patented Friendly Smile. "Nice to see you, Colin- do you know what going on?"

Colin turns to me, eyes alert with what I can only assume is some _very_ juicy gossip.

"Dr. Quinzel!" He waves me over. "You just missed it, the Bat just brought Joker in." … _Wait what? "_ Missy was on her way when they pulled up." He gestures to one of the other nurses. "Joker was out cold when they got here, apparently Batman looked pissed, dragged him straight down to the interrogation room. Commissioner Gordon and a few of his men followed them down a few minutes ago- hey, didn't you used to treat the Jo-"

"Thanks Colin, see you later."

I barely manage to force the words out in a last ditch effort to maintain an air of normalcy before I'm sprinting in my _stupid_ heels, heart pounding. I'm freezing in my cold sweat because he is _bleeding_ down there- I know it, he is hurt and he _needs_ me, I _need_ to be down there, I need to see him!

I shove through the doors on level one and head straight for the intake area. I flash my card without stopping for the guards and they might be yelling but I'm not listening because I can see the crowd outside interrogation room one. There are four cops, three Arkham guards, a nurse, and the warden. She's talking to an older detective type guy with grey hair and a thick moustache- I recognize him as police commissioner Jim Gordon. _Right._ They're interrogating the Joker, but all of the detectives are out here having a _chat._

I guess its no secret who does the dirty work.

 **Authors note 2:** Just a bit more explanation! In case you were wondering, Harley's blackout was, in fact a (very simplified) dissociative episode. If you've ever had one you'll know how disorienting and horrifying they are. If you have any questions about them, feel free to ask!


	16. Chapter 16

**Authors Note:** Hiya kiddos- second to last chapter here, holy moly!

Just a lil preamble: I don't hate batman! I don't think he's boring or shitty! I have definitely read JxH fics where he's depicted that way though, and I just want to make it totally clear that that's not what I'm doing here. I think bats and J have a special relationship that deserves recognition, but its definitely going to take sometime for harley to understand that, so the first few bat appearance aren't likely to be the most flattering. Just a heads up!

There's more of the Penguin's aviary in this chapter too- just a reminder, all of the fighters are named after birds, so fun-fact: the Blue-capped Ifrit secrets a neurotoxin through its feathers, and the shrike is a tiny, adorable bird that impales its prey live. Also I'm giving you a little teaser for Harley's costume, but you'll see it in full in the next chapter. I decided not to go with any of her canon costumes mostly because they didn't feel quite right but Harley is liable to switch it up and I'm a big fan of the original jester suit so you never know. I do have a sketch of the costume I designed though, so if you're interested in seeing that just let me know.

As always you guys are the greatest readers ever, thanks for sticking with me! Oh also, reviews are ambrosia to me (wink, wink, nudge, nudge) and I want to know if I'm taking this story in a direction thats enjoyable, so please let me know!

Love and hugs, Sewer angel

p.s I actually slipped in a line from a new-52 comic, which I usually don't am not a fan of, but this one is pretty great. Kuddos if you catch it!

 **CHAPTER 16: Please, Mr. Jailer!**

How unprofessional is this? All these cops out here, the _commissioner_ for god's sake, and not one of them is concerned with the fact that what's happening in that room is a complete miscarriage of justice. Physical interrogation hasn't been legal in the U.S since the 60's, and that's exactly why _they'_ re out here, and the stupid freakin' Bat is in there. I feel my throat constrict like I'm about to start crying, but I don't have time for that.

"What _exactly_ is going on here?" My voice is horribly shrill and 10 heads turn sharply in my direction. Most of them are polite enough to look shocked, but the warden just looks annoyed.

"Commissioner, this is Dr. Quinzel, Patient 0801's former psychiatrist." Somehow she manages to introduce me in the most dismissive tone possible and I barely resist the burning urge to slap her, directing my attention to the commissioner instead.

"Am I correct in assuming you've got that fucking _vigilante_ in there interrogating him?" I'm too angry to feel any fear at the lurch Brieve gives in response to my language, I'm honestly about two seconds from having a full meltdown and its all I can do to keep from assaulting someone. Gordon sighs, rubbing his forehead and looking about two hundred years old.

"He's got a time bomb out there Dr Quinzel," His voice is tight, and I'm _sure_ this has been a long night, I'm _sure_ his job is ridiculously hard in this city, but _I don't care_. "There are lives on the line-"

"And that's an excuse for this blatant disregard for human rights?" I take a lunging step forward, and for a moment I can see my fingernails digging into his face and dragging, just shredding the skin. "He needs _medical_ attention!"

Gordon drops his weathered hand from his face, and the steel in his expression shows me exactly how he got his prestigious position.

"With all due respect, Dr. Quinzel," His voice is cold now, no longer patronizingly condescending. "Your patient murdered eight innocent people tonight, and unless we get answers in the next hour he _will_ add a hundred more to that list. Forgive me if his _comfort_ isn't my highest priority."

"His comfort?! How _dare_ y-"

"Dr. Quinzel!" Snaps the warden, and I whip around to glare at her, chest heaving and hair falling out of its bun to hang in my face. "You will shut your mouth and allow commissioner Gordon do his job if you wish to continue treating the patient, is that understood?" _Absolutely not!_

 _"Quinzel."_ Her voice its freezing cold and for a moment I can see straight and I realize how serious she is. She's going to take him away if I don't get my shit together right now, _she's going to take him away-_

"Yes." I turn my glare on the floor, because I know I won't be able to hide my impatience. "I understand."

I settle in for the wait, assuming a 'casual' pose that makes me feel like a mannequin and clasping my hands tightly to keep them from turning to claws. I can hear the clock hammering, the vents wheezing and the godamn cameras _buzzing_ , but no matter how hard I strain, I can't hear anything from inside that room. All the white noise starts to amplify to the point that its actually painful, ricocheting around in my skull and I can't think about anything but how much he's hurting and how fucking close he is, and how I can't do _any_ thing about it. _I'm failing him. He deserves better, he deserves-_ the door opens and all the air leaves my lungs.

He is _broken_.

One of his arms hangs limp at his side, four of his fingers are purple and swollen. His suit is spattered in sticky dried blood, tattered and rumpled, and his hair is completely dishevelled, plastered to his forehead, sweat running tracks in the grime grim on his face. _God_ , he is _barely_ recognizable under all those bruises...one of his eyes is completely shut and my heart shatters. _Jesus Christ_ , he can't even stand, he's being held up by a giant Kevlar-coated _asshole_. The creep in question towers over me in ostentatious black armor, inky cap falling from his broad shoulders like thick shadow, shifting as he moves. The mask though, _that_ looks surreal in the artificial light- it never seemed so monstrous in the pictures.

"Gordon, send your men to Wayne Tower, top floor- Bruce Wayne's office." He sounds like gravel going through a garburator, but at least he has decency to look grim about what he's just done. J just looks delirious, he's got this glassy-eyed grin pulling at his busted lips. I want to pull him away from that _psycho_ and wrap my arms around him, I want to protect him from these animals; I want to cry and scream and shoot the bat in the face with Gordon's gun.

I can't do that.

God _fucking_ damn it.

There's no way to hide how I feel, it's radiating out of my pores and I wish it were a toxic gas that could choke them all- all of them except for him. I barely manage to avoid falling to my knees as the Bat drops him unceremoniously on a gurney and the cops and guards rush forward to strap him down.

"You should be _ashamed_ of yourself." My words push through my lips in a feral hiss and everyone stares, but I don't care. I'm focused on the maniac in black. "Does it make you feel big to hurt him?" Batman does not move but to clench his fists. "After _everything_ he's done to you it must be cathartic- do you go looking for him when you've had a _bad_ _day_?"

"Please step aside, Dr Quinzel."

"You're _pathetic_ , you know that?" I push forward, jamming an accusatory digit against his chest plate. "You're _just_ as obsessed as he is, _you_ just won't admit it-"

"That's _enough_ , Dr. Quinzel." Someone has their hands on my arms, pulling me aside, but I'm still on the offensive, struggling to free myself so I can _make_ him pay attention. He strides past me like he hasn't heard a word I've said, he doesn't even look at J on his gurney- anger prickles hot like a rash and it threatens to tear me apart right here. The hands on my arms squeeze tighter and the sting of it cuts through a bit of the rage, giving me back the reigns so I can choke my insults. I whirl around to J the moment the Bat disappears. He's only barely conscious, eyelids fluttering weakly though his eyes are rolled back, and somehow he's still smiling. Every inch of him is raw and dripping scarlet- there's _so_ much blood, too much blood and I feel dizzy. I try to move towards him but the person holding my arms tightens their grip.

"Not now Harley."I realize now that the person is Leland and that should _probably_ give me some degree of comfort but theres an acidic fear eroding my stomach.

I've manage to still myself on the outside because the last thing I want is to get myself thrown off this case- one glance at Brieve is enough to confirm that she's considering it. It's all I can do to take deep breaths as I watch the orderlies strap him down and shoot him up, and when our procession begins the march down to the I.C.U my steps are completely mechanical. All I can think about is how slow we're moving and how much blood he's lost, we don't even _know_ what his insides look like- Leland drags me into observation room above the operating theater. At this point Brieve has left us and the cops followed Batman out, so Leland and I are alone up here, remaining guards having surrounded the medical team below. He's been known to attack mid-procedure- he's a big fan of scalpels.

The thought almost makes me laugh but then I look down and they're hooking him up to a blood bag, they're slicing into him and I can't take it. Hot tears roll down my face and I let out a horrible strangled wail as Leland wraps her arms around me. I don't dare look at her face, I don't want to see how worried she is and I don't know how I'll explain this, but it doesn't matter right now. I cry until the flood is weak enough to hold back and I watch every incision, every stitch until my eyes dry up and burn, forcing me to blink. When they start cleaning up, it's a little easier to get air into my lungs, and when they wheel him out of the room I stand to follow but Leland pulls me back down.

"He's ok." She impresses, squeezing my hands to stop me from looking over my shoulder. "Are you?" _Oh god, she knows_. She knows _everything_ \- no she doesn't. She knows nothing, it's ok. _I'm ok_. I just need to talk some shit.

"I'm _so_ sorry Joan! I should never have freaked out like that…" I sniffle and take a deep breath."I've just been having _guy_ problems, and I've been so _stressed_ about the changes around here-" She nods; I knew she would relate to that second part. "And then having to stand by while a patient is being _abused_? Even him." The last bit is an after thought. I hate having to talk about him like this, he doesn't _deserve_ this, he doesn't deserve to-

"It's _ok_ , Harley." Joan sighs, brushing a bit of errant hair out of her face."We've all been under a lot of pressure lately. I've come close to several breakdowns myself this week- I certainly don't blame you." She says with a dry affections, patting my arm. "And I'm sorry about the guy problems, sweetie. That's always tough." _You don't know the half of it, lady._

"Thank you for being so understanding, really, it means so much." I make an attempt to wipe the streaks of mascara from my face. "I'm alright now." I lie through my teeth, pushing out a smile. Time to turn the focus around. "Are _you_ ok Joan? I can't imagine how stressful it was for you to deal with Finches passing, god the paper work… And now Brieve? Well she's not exactly a peach." Leland laughs at that- a single, cynical beat, but she's smiling and she's not thinking about me.

"I'm doing my best." She says with a tired sort of optimism. "It will get better now that she's here. I hope. At least I'll have less work to do, god knows _I_ never wanted to be warden. But I'm fine Harley, thank you for asking. You should head home now- I wish I could tell you to take tomorrow off but I don't think Brieve will understand. I'm sorry, sweetie."

"It's ok Joan, really."

"Alright. You get a good sleep, now, ok?"

"Thanks Joan, you too." I smile at her as we part ways outside the observation room.

I know she's heading back up to her office, so I walk toward mine until I know she can't see me and then I loop back around to the recovery area. The nurse who meets me at the door looks pissed before I've even opened my mouth, so I lay on some sugar.

"Hi there!" I flash her my sweetest and most apologetic smile, glancing down at her I.D badge." _So_ sorry to bother you, Macy, I know it's been a difficult night. I'm Dr. Quinzel, I'm the Jokers primary physician- I was just wondering if I could see him for a moment?"

"I'm sorry Dr. Quinzel," Macy shakes her head. _Bitch_. I bite my tongue. "we can't allow anyone in there right now."

"Oh!" I force an understanding nod. "That's alright." _No it isn't, not at all-_ "Would it be possible for you to let me know if there are any changes? Here's my number-" I dig a scrap of paper from my bag and scribble it down before passing the paper over. Macy takes it with a sigh, tucking my number into her pocket.

"Sure. Now if you don't mind-"

"Of course, Macy. I'm so sorry for taking your time. Good night!"

My adieu is chipper and my wave is friendly but I'm imagining her fingers bent backwards. I should go home, I _should_ \- it wouldn't look right for me to stay here, not for him. But how the hell am I supposed to _leave_? How can I drive away knowing that he's tucked away in the basement hooked up to a respirator? I can't. If they won't let me be _with_ him then at least I'll be in the building. I'll be just a few floors up in case anything happens.

I spend the night in my office staring at my computer screen. I watch videos of him until I think my eyes might start to bleed- news footage, interviews, and security tapes- anything to see his face. I keep checking my phone though I've got the ringer on and each minute seems to hang on, slowing the passage of the next. When morning comes and I still have no update from Macy, I'm simultaneously relieved and worried- on the one hand disaster didn't strike overnight, but I don't know anything new either.

I don't have time to think about that though, I have appearances to keep up.

A quick peek in the mirror at my desk reveals that I look like a mess, which is entirely expected. My hair is everywhere, there are giant purple wells under my eyes, and I still have streaks of makeup cross-hatching my face. I grab my water bottle and some Kleenex, scrubbing my face clean before delving into my purse for some concealer and a little mascara. Lucky for me, I used to be the kind of person that kept spare clothes at work- granted the trousers and cardigan are a bit frumpy by my current standards, but at least it isn't the same outfit I wore yesterday. I need to look emotionally stable and relatively sane- whether or not I actually _am_ is highly questionable but another mirror check confirms that I look certifiably normal. Tired, but normal.

 _Heh_ \- well you know what they say, never judge a book by its cover.

I push through a few sessions and then _finally_ I get a message from Macy. Apparently he's stabilized enough that they're moving him to isolation tomorrow. Frankly, the transfer seems premature but I can't afford to argue with them. After my last session of the day I head down to the I.C.U, but Macy doesn't have any news so I make her promise to pass my number on to the next nurse on call and I force myself to leave the building. On the drive home I feel like there are elastics knotted into the muscle of my back, wrapped around my sternum and tugging me back to the asylum. The elastics don't let go even when I enter my fort, tightening each time I get a useless update.

By Saturday afternoon, I'm quite sure I've lost whatever crumbs of sanity I had left. I woke up feeling completely dead and numb until I catch sight of the clown doll i've been cuddling and I burst into tears. My eyes are still raw from last night and I don't have the energy to to wipe them now, so I climb into the bathtub because I don't know what else to do, and I sit there long after the water goes cold and I start to shiver. I'm not sure how long I've been staring at the tiled wall when a shrill ring jolts me, and I realize with apathetic distance that my phone is ringing. I'm all set to ignore it when I remember that a phone call might mean news and I jump to my feet on stiff legs. Water sloshes out of the tub and I wobble precariously, nearly sliping and cracking my head on the faucet before I clamber out and rush naked into my bedroom, snatching my cell from the bedside table and answering on the third ring.

"Hello?" I sound desperate as I chew the inside of my cheek, praying silently for something good.

"Miss Quinzel?" I don't recognize the voice on the other end and my stomach clenches in soured disappointment.

"Yes." The toneless confirmation does nothing to hide my bad mood.

"This is Trixie from Mr. Cobblepot's office. Are you available tonight?" My mind has drifted back to Arkham, so it takes a moment to process the question.

"For a fitting?"

"And a fight, we got a last minute cancellation. I don't have all day to fill the spot, so if you don't-'

"I'll do it." I snap, digging my fingernails into my palms. "What time?"

At 9:30 I tuck into a cab, picking nervously at a bit of torn skin on my index finger. I'm ushered inside on arrival and my fitting is completed an hour before the show, just 10 pins and 2 minutes behind a thin curtain before a shove toward my makeup artist, Iggy. She plunks me into a chair and gets to work on my face and hair before I've even got my shirt buttoned up again, playing up a peaches and cream complexion and accentuating my over-large eyes with dramatic black wings and thick false lashes. She puts delicate roses on my cheeks and brushes a light pink gloss over my lips before pulling my hair up into high pigtails and curling the ends. I grin at my reflection- I'm glad she chose to do my hair like this; it's my new favourite look. It doesn't hurt that he liked it too.

God I wish he was here- _don't think about that, dummy, you'll cry and that's going to mess with your cred_. Ok. I'm fine. I'm _totally_ fine. I focus on the mechanical whir of Rosie's sewing machine as she finishes off my costume, trying to replace melancholy with anticipation. While I'm waiting in my civvies trying not to mess up my makeup, the announcer comes by to give me a pep talk and a bottle of water. Up close I can see that he's about 5'9'' and the thin lines around his eyes and mouth tell me that he's in his late thirties. He's got a little black star tattooed underneath his left eye, and a flock of ravens flying up his neck from the collar of his tux.

" _Aw_ , they're gonna throw you in with a big guy." It's the first thing he says when he finds me sitting cross-legged next to Rosie. "Archibald." He holds out his hand and I let him pull me to my feet.

"Harley." I return, tipping my chin up in attempt to seem just a little taller. "Why would they do that?"

He grins, revealing a silvered incisor.

"Because there's money in an unfair fight- especially if the house is betting on the underdog. Come on, let's get you armed." He leads me out of the changing rooms and back into the hallway, then down to Rosie's domain where he shows me to her casual armoury.

"Take your pick." He says.

I know immediately what I want to fight with. This time when I pick up strongman the hammer I don't fall over. Actually, this time his weight feels _immaculately_ balanced and his handle is perfectly fitted to my hand.

"I like the hammer." I grin on the words and Archibald nods his approval.

"I dig it, very anime. Now before we go back, are you hungry? You want some 'zza?" I shake my head no; I can't imagine eating right now- the nerves have killed my appetite. "You need to go to the bathroom- number one? Number two?" I giggle, still shaking my head. "No?" He asks. "Ok, because when we go back up there it'll be costume time and then you'll have to wait in the wings until show time, so this is last call." With that, he leads me back to the dressing room just in time for Rosie to start squawking my name. I run, unwilling to face her wrath, and she helps me into my battle gear.

That's a very loose description.

What I'm wearing is a little sailor blouse with a flouncy pink bow and a matching pink tennis skirt. They've even given me thigh high socks and a pair of white high-tops. With my pigtails, the look is total jailbait- at least it would be if I weren't twenty-six. Still, you'd have to see my driver's license to know that I'm legal. Despite the sexed up, juvenile intent of the look though, I feel great. The skirt shows off my toned legs, the shoes are very comfortable, and most importantly I think my locked up lover would appreciate it.

Rosie bustles around me, tucking and straightening and snipping loose strings, and when she's done she plants a firm kiss on my forehead.

"You have the heart of a lion, little shrike. Don't be afraid out there." With that she squeezes my arms and sends me back to Archibald, who shows me to the wings; a caged off area next to the entrance to the arena. It's kind of like the opera boxes that are used in the audience, but its larger and significantly less well furnished- nothing more than a rough bench and a familiar looking kid with a set of nun-chucks on his lap. His thumbs hammer rapidly on the keys of an ancient Gameboy colour, and he doesn't look up from it when I sit down on the bench next to him.

"You're the snowy owl right?"

He looks up. When his eyes land on me they glaze over slightly and his thumbs freeze, prompting his Gameboy to make one of those sad little 'game over' sounds.

"Uh…" He blinks, making an ardent attempt not to stare at the strip of pale skin between my socks and the hem of my skirt- I try not to laugh. Poor kid.

"The one and only." He plasters on a smirk and wiggles his eyebrows, perhaps in attempt to recover.

"I saw you fight the Magpie." I say with a grin. "You're pretty good with those." He smiles, and then he reddens, looking down at his nun-chucks.

"Thanks. Nice hammer by the way." He eyes strongman appreciatively. "So what's your stage name?"

"I'm the shrike." I adjust my grip on my weapon, flashing sharp teeth and leaning closer on a whim to see his eyes widen. "We like to _play_ with our food." The owl swallows hard and I'm planning on continuing my fun when Archibald pops his head through the curtain.

"Showtime, Shrikey." He grins, clapping his hands. A jolt of nervous anticipation straightens my spine and I pop up to my feet, Archie just chuckles "Cool it kid, we ain't gonna start without ya'. Just wait till' I announce you- and don't be afraid to give us a memorable entrance, the boss likes a show." He winks before disappearing again and the audience outside fills the air with applause as he takes the stage. The racket pounds in my chest, and the beam that spreads across my face is nearly painful even as a sweat springs up on my palms.

I'm about to go fight some goliath while wearing a stripper costume for the entertainment of Gotham's shadiest residents; I've basically volunteered to get the shit kicked out of me and I don't even know if they have a tap out policy- yes, I am afraid. And that's exactly why I'm doing this. I'm doing this for the adrenaline, for the jittery, electric energy that makes me feel too big for my skin. If the fear is my upper, my amphetamine high, then the pain of the first strike will be my downer, my smooth blissful Valium. I need them both tonight; I'll take anything I can get to numb the tug of these godamn strings. Ain't love a pain?

"Hey, uh, good luck out there." I jump, not having noticed the owl's approach, and the deep breath I take as I step through the curtain is nothing but pretence.

 _Showtime, cupcake._

I beam into the blinding light that baths my side of the stage, bracing strongman over my shoulder and skipping forward.

"First up tonight, we've got a reform school reject! She may _look_ sweet folks, but this little lady's been expelled for a reason- give it up for the Shrike!"

I giggle, dipping into a curtsy as the audience serenades me with cat-calls and whistles.

"Facing off against the Shrike we have fan-favourite the Ifrit! Subject to strange genetic modification after signing up for questionable medical testing, this punk developed a poisonous touch-" Archie turns to me with malicious grin and my opponent moves into the light.

Well, Ol' Archie was half right- the guy is definitely bigger than me, but he's only slightly above average height and he isn't particularly muscular. He's got a shock of electric blue hair and he must be wearing contacts because his eyes are a catlike shade of orangey yellow, dripping black tattooed tears that bleed into the whorls and twists of ink that cover his bare upper half. He wears a padlock around his neck and his pants, which appear to be made of a series of straps and buckles, are tucked into tightly laced doc martens. He scans the crowd before his gaze lands on me and he bares a set of teeth filed to sharp points. It's clear that he's trying to intimidate me and he is certainly unnerving, but it isn't about his appearance.

It's because he isn't carrying a weapon.

I subjugate a shiver by blowing a raspberry at him and he gnashes his teeth in response, clearly just as thirsty for this fight as I am. Where the crowd was all bawdy leers and wolf whistles for me, they holler and punch the air for him- the contrast makes me grit my teeth as I heft my hammer, and I decide that I am not going to lose this fight.

"That's right, little Shrike," booms Archibald. "Just one second of skin to skin contact is enough to clip your wings. Now, without further adieu _….LET THE GAMES BEGIN!_ "

The Ifrit begins to take slow, smooth steps towards me, his face frozen in that same shadowed smile.

"You tryin' to scare me, mister?" I stand my ground, planting a hand on my hip and flipping one of my pigtails over my shoulder. "Cause' I seen _scary_ , and you ain't got his smile."

The Ifrit's mouth twitches but he does not slow his progress.

"Stupid little _bitch_ -" Suddenly he lashes out with a clawed hand, swiping at my face. I bring my hammer up fast, knocking his hand out of the way but he manages to grab the handle dangerously close to my grip. Pins and needles shoot through my fingers and I bring my foot up, shoving it against his abdomen to break his grasp. He snarls as I spin away, using the weight of my hammer to create momentum as I swing it back around. The Ifrit drops down to all fours and scrambles forward with a spiderlike flexibility that startles me enough to make me trip backwards over my own feet. I land on my ass and when he grabs my ankles I can feel his fingernails biting through my socks. I kick frantically, knowing I need to make space if I hope to get out of this at all- my hammer is useless at this distance and he's on me too fast, shoving his knee down into my stomach and pushing the air from my lungs. All the sound is sucked from the room and all I can see is the triumph on his face and _fuck that-_

Sharp, high-pitched laugher cuts the silence, ripping up out of me and his confidence falters just long enough for me to ram my knee up between his legs. I actually see his eyes cross with the pain and the laughter cramps my stomach while I grab a fistful of his hair without thinking, and I slam his head against the concrete next to him.

I don't waste time getting out from under him and back to my feet, hefting my hammer and bringing it smashing down where his head should be. I just want to hear his skull crack but he's rolled out of the way and I'm chasing him, swinging relentlessly as he struggles to get to his feet. I'm getting cocky now, I'm thinking I only need to land a few more good hits and snake boy will be eating dirt. I'm laughing too hard, having too much fun to react fast enough when he switches tactics, diving and rolling under my next swing. He comes up close and his hand closes around my throat.

 _Fuck_.

I feel my feet lift off the ground as he tosses me like a ragdoll but I barely feel the sting of the ground coming up to meet me because he _touched_ me, and I am so royally screwed. A burning sensation digs into the skin around my throat and my head spins. I push through the vertigo, taking a shaky stand as a pounding fills my ears- it takes me a moment to realize that the sound is the audience chanting for my defeat. When I do, acid spikes my veins, and an acetic rage that pushes a battle cry from my lips even as my vision quadruples like I'm looking through a prism lens. I watch four of him take a running leap at me and a smile splits my lips though they quiver with the toxin cramping my muscles.

He's just relinquished his most powerful weapon- he's taken away my fear.

I'm already marked- this is kamikaze. I throw my body forward to bring my hammer up from behind, shrieking when I feel the crunch of his nose as strongman slams into his face. My legs crumple and I drop to my knees as he goes down hard, flat on his back. There is blood spurting from the wreck of cartilage in the middle of his face but I'm not done, _oh_ _no I am not_ \- I drag myself forward and I jab my elbow into the hollow at the base of his throat. He gasps for air through a mouth full of fluid and I just keep punching him in the face even though it feels like I'm pushing through molasses. I just keep punching and punching until my body doesn't belong to me, until my throat starts to close up and my world is sucked abruptly down a hot, aching black hole. And then there's nothing.

A pin pricks the darkness, piercing my lungs and flooding my chest with cold air as the light rushes back in. I can't see a thing, I can barley _feel_ \- and don't they say you see a bright light when you die? Oh _god_ -

"Am I dead!?" I cough on the words, struggling to force my eyes open against a tide of blinding white.

"No, you're just an idiot." The voice is quiet and near but Selina is livid- I can hear it in the clipped pace of her speech and I can't help but smile when I realize she's gripping my hand. I squeeze back and she pulls out of my clutch as the blaze recedes, leavinf me looking up at her through a thick fog. I hear the sharp rip of Velcro pulling apart and I turn my head to see a sombre man in a suit taking a blood pressure cuff from my arm. I note an empty syringe on the gurney next to me and realize we're backstage again.

I turn back to Selina and she's still scowling so I give her a rather dopey smile.

"Ya saw me fight- pretty good, huh?" I sound like I've been smoking since first grade, and my throat feels like its been wrapped in sandpaper.

"I saw you almost _die_! Why the fuck didn't you call me, Harley? I would have come! You're _lucky_ Rosie gave me the heads up that you were fighting tonight-"

" _Agh_ \- kitty, chew me out later, I got a hell of a headache." It's true- I feel like there's a meat tenderizer battering against my forehead from the inside.

"Yeah, well you deserve it." She snaps, but then she takes a deep breath when she sees me wince, and she softens slightly. "But… I mean, you did ok." She looks away as she says it, and that's how I know she really means it. "I definitely didn't think you were going to _win_."

"How long was I out?" My grin is wonky as I push myself up to sit, fighting the dizzy tilt of my central axis.

"Less than..."She checks her watch. "Five minutes- the antidote works fast."

"Aw, see?" I attempt a dismissive wave of my hand but it sort of just flops sadly at the end of my wrist. "That Ifrit guy just talks a big game."

"Actually, if we had gotten to you a minute later you would have been a goner." She purses her lips, raising her eye brow and for a moment the expression is so terrifyingly like my mothers that my breath hitches. "The poison is a paralytic, it would have stopped your heart- _don't_ take this shit lightly Harley, this is your _life_ -" I know I shouldn't, but I laugh, cutting her off, and she grits her teeth.

"Yeah, thanks for pointing it out. Look kitty, it means a lot to me that you came- I just wish you were here cause you wanted to cheer me on, not cause you think you gotta' protect me." Selina opens her mouth to respond but I keep talking, not ready to give her a chance to shut me down. "I ain't kid, y'know?" I do sound horribly childlike when I say it, so I push impulsively off the gurney, landing on wobbly legs and nearly toppling. Selina reaches out to steady me but I push her hand away. "I don't need to be babied- I been through _way_ more than anyone _ever_ gives me credit for." There's a ball rolling up in my throat as my voice gets higher and higher, and something comically close to panic appears on Selina's face. "So _yeah_ , next time I'll call you- but it wont be because I need you to save me, it will be because I want you there as a _friend._ Ok?"

It takes me a moment to realize that I'm standing on my tip-toes to get in her face and I've probably never spoken to her like this before. I back off a bit and take a deep breath while Selina watches me with extreme caution, and then finally, she appears to relax her shoulders and she uncrosses her arms.

"Ok." She says, and though her expression is once more impassive I know she's listening to me. "You need a ride?"

I accept and then I bounce and clap when I realize her 'ride ' is a motorcycle, a sleek, matte black Kawasaki Ninja. Much to Selina's annoyance, I continue my whooping all the way home and she drives like a maniac so by the time we arrive my hair is a mess and I feel awesome. I'm about to invite her up when I remember the current state of my apartment, so instead I give her a great big hug and a kiss on the cheek. She accepts both with her customary stiffness and then she hands me an envelope full of cash from Cobblepot before making her escape. I don't even count the bills as I head up to my apartment, I'm still high on the pain and the fear and honestly I'm feeling better than I have in weeks. That is I am until I open the door and I see the pictures, pictures of him, everywhere- screaming from the first page of the Gotham times, grinning up from a mug shot and laughing in a courtroom sketch and I remember where he is.

That's all it takes to start the crying all over again.

It's Monday afternoon before they let me go down and see him in solitary. The unit is in the old part of the building- chipped cement and iron doors with tiny rectangular slats for food and time-limited conversation. I try to keep my steps steady as I check the numbers on the doors, but the flickering of the track lighting makes me dizzy and it doesn't help the worried nausea coiling inside me. I freeze when I reach the number the guard told me, and the metal slat feels unbearably cold as I push it open to look inside the cell.

My breath tears out of my lungs.

They have him muzzled and mummified in canvas. Leather straps strain across his chest, arms, and legs, lashing him to an up-right metal gurney. They must have used a few gallons of ketamine to put him down because his eyes are glazed, and they drift from my face so he has to keep jerking them back. He can't move at all- I can't even see him smile.

This is _wrong_.

I'm trying so hard to hold it together, wrapping my arms around my body just as tight as the straps on his straightjacket, but I still feel the lurching pulse of a sob in my chest. I keep the sound down, I lock away the moisture, but I can't help my wobbling lower lip. He sees it though, and his chest starts lurching. Above the muzzle his eyes are crinkling, so despite all of my anger, all of my fear and all of the keening injustice that screams in my amygdala, a tiny, fragile smile touches my mouth.

At least I gave him a laugh.

Now I can't hold back the tears and they come in tidal waves though I keep my hand over my mouth to stifle the sound. He just keeps laughing and even though it's muffled it sounds like music, it wraps around me and keeps me warm while I fall to pieces in front of him.

The sound of heavy footfalls send a jolt down my spine, and rips away the warmth to remind me where I am. I swallow the last few sobs, furtively blow a kiss to my precious J and he slowly rolls his eyes before I have to turn away. I rub furiously at my cheeks to dry my face and hide my tears from the approaching guard, keeping my eyes down on my way out of the cell-block. I'm shaking with pain and heartache and rage, each feeling so raw and potent that the combination should have me writhing on the floor. Instead pain becomes gasoline, heartache a spark and rage a vicious inferno and I want to burn this world to the ground.

I have to break him out, it's not a question anymore. With Breive at the helm, he will _never_ get out of solitary- I think she'd stuff him in a vault and drop him into the gotham river if she could, and I'm not about to let her silence the best thing that's ever happened to me.

 _Operation save Puddin' is a go._

Sure, I've never orchestrated a prison break before but I am a smart, creative, boss bitch and I will figure that shit out- I just need an in and an out. Also I will _definitely_ need a great big distraction. _Hey_ , I might kick ass in the ring but there's no way I can take on the whole riot squad on my own, plus I don't know how incapacitated my poor angel will be when I come for him, so I'll need to thin the numbers. There are classic strategies- explosions, riots, a tunnel you dug with a spork- but I don't have time to learn how to build a bomb and I lack the upper body strength for extensive tunnel digging. I could probably find a way to start a riot, but I'd have to release a large number of inmates and that might be more trouble than it's worth. This would be a lot easier if I had super-power. I sigh, pushing into my office and slumping back against the door.

Or, you know, any useful skill at all.

I think of Ivy with her towering oak sentries in Robinson Park, the way she fought with vine and root like sword and shield- she was an unstoppable force. That kind of power would be awfully nice to have on my side, and come to think of it I really wouldn't mind setting two birds free with one stone. I've become oddly attached to the old plant, and I worry about what will to happen if I leave her here with Breive. I bet she'd basically break herself out if I could just get her some seeds or something… I'll have to put some thought into that.

First things first, though: an in and an out.

I pay a visit to my elderly friend in archives. One cup of tea and a gifted Sudoku puzzle later, and I'm lifting blueprints from the maintenance section without her being any wiser. I want to start going over them the moment I get back to my office but I know that's a stupid risk to take, so I manage to hold off until I get home. Now, sitting in the only part of my living room floor that isn't covered in paper, I have to say... I'm very bored. I thought this could be like a cool movie montage with me pouring over building plans, making calculations and using a protractor for some reason, but mostly it's just squinting and sighing. All I have right now is a list of exits without any knowledge of what's guarding them- I have a lot of work to do. I mark off entrances that seem viable, and thus begins step two: surveillance.

After my second session on Tuesday, I go gossip with the nurses in intensive care, and I find out that they prefer the west emergency entrance for their mid-morning smokes. Most of the orderlies I've been eating lunch with are partial to the area by the dumpsters in the back. It doesn't take long to realize that these areas are too close to lockup areas, making the guard presence much heavier. Next, I make friends with some of the kitchen workers and I start going down to have my morning coffee in the cafeteria with them. When they aren't watching, I jot notes about the guard detail near the delivery entrance in the back and I learn two important things: 1. The cafe is essentially empty for thirty minutes after the breakfast clean up, and 2. There is absolutely no one guarding the delivery entrance unless there is a delivery actively occurring.

The entrance caps off a short paved drive used by delivery trucks, which runs around the north-eastern side of the main building. As far as I can tell, deliveries only come on Sundays and Thursdays, usually in the late afternoon so as a prospective exit, this definitely looks the least protected- the only thing is that its position will make it relatively harder to get to. Luckily for me, there's a dense swath of forest hedging the east side of the building, so I should be able to get close enough to check out the security on the outside.

After work I take Arkham drive slowly, scoping out areas along the side of the road where I might be able to hide my car. I find an outcropping of trees not far from the main gates, so I check that there's no one on the road behind me and I park my car in the empty space behind the thicket. After parking, I run back out onto the road to check if the car is visible and I jump for joy when I see that it isn't. Later that night I drive back armed with hiking boots, a flashlight, a pair of wire cutters, and a sneaky black outfit, ready to infiltrate the Arkham woods. Because of the asylum, the reception is good enough out here that I can use my phone GPS to chart my course, and twenty minutes later I'm sitting behind a bush across from my beloved security entrance.

A few feet ahead of my hiding spot is a tall fence topped with barbed wire, more brush and various ferns growing along the bottom. On the other side of the fence is a wide stretch of grass, then the paved drive before the high metal doors of the delivery entrance. Luckily there are no cameras on the entrance itself, so I'll likely be able to run across without being seen. There is an alternating guard shift- just two men walking aimlessly back and forth on the grass- but they time it so they can meet in the middle for a little gossip break, so I'll have least two minute with their backs to me. I use that two-minute blind spot to sneak up to the fence and locate a section I can remove without making a visible hole. I get down behind a patch of maidenhair when the men start making their way back and I stay there until they walk away again, using this next blind interval to cut the hole. I make sure that it's large enough to fit through before I push the section of excised fence back into place and head back to my car, satisfied with my progress for the night.

When I get home I'm too jazzed up to go to sleep so I decide to work on something mostly inconsequential- my costume. It seems obvious that I should have one, presentation and performance being so important to him. This, _everything_ \- is for him. Every risk, expense, and sleepless night; my costume should be for him too. He's more than worth it.

I decide that it needs to be three things: functional, threatening, and obviously, sexy. I start by looking up harlequin designs because it seems like a natural place to start, and I get a bunch of sixteenth-century clowns in diamond print jumpsuits with over-bearing peplums. I can't really imagine myself wearing something like this, but I like the twin-peaked cowls and the diamond motif, so I jot those down as ideas. Next I look at straightjackets- I'll obviously need to be able to use my arms, but I like the high neck and the straps across the front, so I write that down too. I latch on to the idea that I'm jacketing myself for him, to show him that in return for giving me my freedom, I'll willingly sign it away- but only to him.

It's definitely going to be a custom job, which means I'm bringing Ash into this. I'm not sure if I feel guilty about that like I probably should. Either way its not like the cops will looking into my costume designer, and I won't tell her anything- I love her too much and she's cool, but there's no way she'll be cool with this. No one will, I know that. If I pull this off I'll be a pariah- I'll be just another of Arkham's fallen, disgraced and tainted. I can practically see the headlines now: Bimbo Psychiatrist falls for mad clown, loses mind!

Yeah, that'll sell.

I'm not naive enough to think that I'll see my family again, at least not on the same side of the cell. That's ok, I can handle that- but I'm going to miss Ash. She's been my real family; she's the one who's always been there for me. I needed her, needed her love and her support and her approval- I honestly don't know where I would be without it, and I've never been the kinda gal to put a guy before her friends, but this is different. This is fate, this is kismet, this is my calling; I can't pass this up, and I don't think I can live without him anymore.

So I've made my choice.

Maybe it's foolish and maybe I made it too quickly but the answer is effortless: he's all I want, he's my whole future. I wish that future could include Ash, but I won't put her in danger. After she makes my costume, she won't see me again. I let myself cry for her and when my eyes dry, I pour myself a glass of wine and I send her a text asking to hang out- I've got shit to do.

I make a jailbreak shopping list, and then a to do list. I never thought I'd be so thankful that my mom made me learn to shoot when I came to Gotham- I can buy guns legally since I have a licence, and I already have a small pistol. I'm also going to need some seeds for Ivy, so I order a few varieties of vine from amazon and I throw in a Venus flytrap because it seems like a fun idea. After work on Tuesday, I make a trip to the nearest weapons supplier and I browse around. These places are numerous and well stocked in Gotham- if you don't need a gun to hold up a bank, you definitely need one to protect yourself. After perusing the selection, I purchase two Smith and Wesson M&P9 's, mostly because I'm familiar with the make. On a whim I also pick up a set of six throwing knives and a sleek black thigh holster along with a copious amount of ammo. The man at the cash doesn't even give me a second look. I also stop at Wal-Mart on my way home to pick a tin of red paint, a wooden baseball bat, and a box of nails. I paint a target on the wall in my living and I start practicing with my knives for at least 10 minutes before breakfast. After dinner I hammer nails into the business end of my new bat as I review the blueprints and plan my route. I sell my car and I replace it with a cheap grey Nissan that I pay for in cash- sure it's a beater, but its not even a little bit recognizable and I keep it that way by taking a shuttle to work.

Everyday I spend in the asylum is another needle shoved into my spine, a jolt of soul binding pain that I swallow as I walk around, pretending that I'm not ready to beat everyone here to a pulp. I can _feel_ him here, just out of reach in a cell buried deep in the ground. I know that I can't visit him now, I can't arouse suspicion and I don't think I'll be able to look at his face without giving everything away. I feel cripplingly lonely and it clutches at my chest relentlessly. When I leave work, I go shopping. I start to pack a bag for him- a change of clothes, some hair dye, a bit of make up, chocolate pudding- the works. I also pick up a prepaid phone, knowing I'll have to ditch mine.

On Thursday, I go to Ash's and I slather on my happy face when she opens the door. She makes tea for me and we chatter aimlessly until I work up the courage to make my request.

"So…" I start, trying to gather my words. "I kind of have a commission for you."

"You _know_ I'm not going to let you pay me." Ash rolls her eyes, but her grin is immediate and her excitement is clear. Honestly, I knew it was too much to ask for her to let me pay, but I still feel my shoulders slump- I wanted to give her something back, just this last time.

"Ash, come on-"

"Oh just give up." She waves an imperious hand and I know I lost the fight before it started. "Tell me what you want, you know I love making things for you- you're my _muse_." She drawls with haughty drama.

I sigh, deciding not to ruin our last afternoon together with a fight, and I dig my sketch out of my bag, silently rehearsing my cover story. Ash takes the scrap of crumpled paper, and he mouth pops open.

"Wow Harls, this is um... well you know I'll never judge, but this is very American horror story- and I'm talking first season, like rubber man." A slow grin spreads over her face as she reads my notes, and suddenly her eyes light up. " _Ohmygod_ \- you're into bondage aren't you? I _knew_ it!" She shrieks, and I cringe "You kinky little fuck!" She pinches my cheeks before I have a chance to spit out my practiced excuse. "Are you going to wear this to one of those sex parties? Come on give me the juice- do you have a master or a sir or something? Are you someone's _slave_?" She giggles with a sort of sadistic glee and I flush so fast I'm almost worried about having my legs give out from blood loss.

"NO!" I squeak with rather less conviction than I'd lik. "It's not like that! I'm _um_ \- I've just been missing gymnastics lately so I signed up to be in a burlesque show." I feel immature and silly for whispering that last part, especially given everything she's just accused me of.

"FUCK, girl that is so cool! Why would you keep that from me- you _know_ how much I love that shit, what's your theme? Sexy Edward scissor hands?" She bounces her eye brows, making scissor motions with her fingers. I actually laugh at that, imagining myself showing up in the D-wing with blades strapped to my fingers and my hair teased into the kind of crazed mop only Depp could pull off. Actually, _He_ might get a kick out of that.

"No, I'm supposed to be a mental patient. I wanted it to look sort of like a straight-jacket. "

"Damn, you _are_ kinky. Is _this_ why you work in an asylum?" Ash laughs, shaking her head when she sees me pout at the jab. "Don't be like that, can you blame me for being surprised? Six months ago I couldn't get you into a pair of kitten heels and now you're asking for leather straightjackets to strip out of on stage." I cross my arms, still feeling abashed and trying to play it off as grumpiness.

"Yeah, yeah..." I mutter, but Ash is already turning back to the sketch.

I settle in besides her, sipping my now cold tea as she gets to work. I feel an achy tightness balling up in my throat. I'm _really_ going to miss her. But I'm not going to think about that right now, so I hold up my smile and it turns real when she shows me her more finessed design. I clap and screech for a while, fawning over it before she shoves me out of her apartment so she can get to work.

The rest of the week goes by far too quickly, like Monday has started to tug me closer. The distance of that day used to be a horrible itch, but now that I just want to press pause it rolls in like a storm. Everything is ready- I have my plan memorized and rehearsed down to the minute. I have my supplies and I've been practicing for weeks but nothing feels real until Ash drops off my finished costume on Sunday, and I have to try to say goodbye without breaking down in front of her because I can't afford that now.

It feels good move though, to grab my jacked and my packed duffel after she leaves. It feels even better to get in my new trash car and drive down Arkahm road. When I spot the thicket of trees I scouted earlier, I pull off the pavement and park behind it, then I get out, grabbing my duffel and my flashlight from the trunk before heading into the woods. I loop around the back of the facility exactly as I did before, clicking off my own light when I get close enough to see the lights from the main building. I hang back in the trees, waiting for the gap in the frankly very disappointing patrol that guards this side of the grounds. My time comes a moments after the guards meet a few yards away from my hiding spot. They exchange a sort a ritualized and overly macho greeting, and then turn away, walking in opposite directions. I start the timer on my watch: five minutes.

I dart forward, setting aside the branch I'd used to hide the hole I cut into the fence this morning. I crawl through, and push it back into place behind me, staying low and waiting for the spotlights to sweep away before I sprint for the building. I stick to the wall as I make my way to the delivery entrance, and I bury my duffel bag in pile of leaves and sticks that have collected up against the wall before checking my watch again: two minutes. I race back the way I came, searching for my branch- when I spot it, I run across and duck back through the hole, obscuring it behind me. I take a shaky, exhilarated breath, wanting to do a happy dance. Ultimately though, the desire to get away is stronger, and I can see one of the guards approaching so I head back into the woods.

When I get home I obsessively arrange everything I'll need to get ready in the morning, already having packed everything I'm taking in my 'new' unregistered car. I've left enough here that it wont be obvious I planned to leave, and I take or dispose of anything that could be construed as incriminating. Finally I force myself to bed for a few fitful hours of sleep.

Tomorrow is a _big_ day.


	17. Chapter 17

**Authors Note:** HI FRIENDS! I'm so sorry this took so long, I just _really_ wanted a perfect finale.

Before you get your knickers in a knot I'd like to inform you that I'm currently working away on the second instalment of this series, and I hope to be posting the first chapter of that fairly soon- A.k.A weeks, not months from now. And on that note I'd like to apologize again for my sporadic posting!

I also want to thank everyone who has been reading- words can't express how grateful I feel to each and every one of you and I hope you've enjoyed reading this as much as I've enjoyed writing it! As always I would love to hear your feedback, so let me know what you think 3

And now, much fussing and many hours, here's it is- endings are always bitter sweet, aren't they? Much love and many hugs to you all,

xoxo, Sewer Angel

P.S: Warnings for gore on this one, folks. Proceed at your own risk.

 **CHAPTER 17: Free Jeezy**

I wake up bright and early with a smile on my face, promptly getting dressed and eating a hefty breakfast of eggs and bacon. I drive to work 30 minutes ahead of the shuttle so they won't see me walking in after I park my car behind my designated thicket. When I get through the security check, I head straight down to the cafeteria for my morning coffee with the kitchen staff. I smile, I crack jokes about sleep deprivation, and I help shuttle plates and plastic utensils until one by one they all disappear and I slip out the back of the kitchen to head for the delivery entrance. It takes me about a minute to pick the lock- lucky for me Brieve's security upgrades haven't reached this section yet, so they haven't switched over to key cards.

When the lock clicks open I do a shoulder check before pushing open the door just a crack to look for the ground patrol. Seeing no one, I push it open a little further, digging into the pile of leaves outside for my duffel. When I find the strap, I yank it inside and shoulder it before carefully closing the door. The feeling of walking away with that thing- the knowledge that I'm strutting through the halls of a high security correctional asylum with a bag full of weapons and _no_ one _even_ gives me a second glance- it is abso _lutely_ exquisite.

Making it back to my office I stow the duffel under my desk and start to play pretend. I imagine that this is a normal day and I go through the motions. I go to sessions, I get coffee, I reply to emails, and at precisely twelve, I tuck my seed packets into the front of my skirt and I go down to see Ivy.

Abbey is her usual bubbly self when she greets me and processes the mini DVD player I brought for Ivy. I respond in kind until she gestures for me to go through the decontamination chamber. I bite my lip and my brow furrows.

"Can I talk to you for a second?" I ask the question like an apology and the concern on her face is immediate.

"Of course." She reaches out and squeezes my arm, her smile warm and comforting while mine is hopeful, but weak.

"Ok, um, this is really hard for me to say, but you've always been _so_ kind to me so I'm just going to go for it." I take a deep breath, pressing a hand to my stomach and Abbey nods in encouragement. "My boyfriend and I have been trying to get pregnant for two years now, and I- I keep loosing th-" My voice cuts out and I drop my face into my hands as Abbey begins to coo, wrapping herself around me.

"Oh sweetie," She rubs my back and I take in quick, sharp breaths like I'm trying not to cry. "I understand," Of course you do, you aren't going to a fertility clinic because you have too many kids. "Losing a child is the most painful thing a woman can experience. Are you…?"

I nod, wiping false tears away as a hopeful smile pops up on my face.

"I'm just so worried that it's going to happen again- I haven't had sugar in months! All I eat is kale and salmon and I can't even use normal cleaning products because the chemicals could reduce my fertility!" My rant has become feverish, and Abbey is eating it up, patting my back and nodding with such pure empathy that it would bring tears to my eyes if I hadn't already worked some up. I make a show of calming myself, and when I have my breathing under control I squeeze her hands.

"I don't want to stop visiting Pam, but… I'm sorry; I can't go through the defoliant. I just- I don't know what it could do, you know? I can't risk it." My voice cracks and I look down.

"I…" She begins sheepishly. "Maybe I could let you through." I have to lock down my triumphant grin.

"Abbey, I could _never_ ask you to-"

She shakes her head. _Yahtzee_!

"It would have to be our little secret, ok? You've been such a good influence on her, and I don't want her to lose you. You can walk right through the chamber, just don't close the door behind you."

I bite my lip, and then I nod gratefully.

"You're amazing." I gush, giving Abbey an exuberant hug. "thank you so much, honestly. I won't speak a word of this."

"It's no problem," Abbey smiles. " I understand completely. And good luck, sweetie- with everything."

I give her hand one last squeeze and then I walk through the defoliant chamber unscathed. I manage to hold off on my happy dance until I get to the elevator, but the dance is absolutely necessary because I need to expel all this excessive energy. I need to be a smooth operator- the doors begin to open and I cease my jig, assuming what I hope is a casual stance as I exit into Ivy's area. She's already on her feet, kindle set aside, and the look on her face makes it obvious that she knows what I'm packing. She looks like she's about to cry, her large hazel eyes are uncharacteristically wide and glossy, her lips parted with uneven breath.

"I brought you another present!" I exclaim, holding up the DvD player as I close the distance between us.

"What is it?" The question is too quick, nearly desperate though she knows exactly what it is.

"Fern gully." I shift the player to my left arm so that I can obscure my right hand from the camera when I slip the seeds out of my skirt and push them into the back of the DvD case. "I wanted you to see it and I had this old portable player kicking around…" I set the player and the DvD in the delivery tray, sliding it through. Ivy immediately snatches up the gift and holds it tight to her chest.

"Thank you." Her words are nearly monotone but there's a feverish light in her eyes that promises blood. I'm quite sure my grin does the same.

"You should watch it around 9 tonight. I'll be home by then so I can watch it too- it will be like we're watching it together!"

"You're a nut." Ivy rolls her eyes but she's beaming now that the initial shock has worn off. "I will. I promise." The sobriety of this oath is the reassurance I need, and just like that, I'm one step closer to him.

It's an effort to make myself move away from the glass and take a seat- after all I have hours to waste, but this anticipation is eroding my affected calm and all the excitement comes exploding from my mouth. I expel torrents of words about absolutely nothing and everything from a ranked list of my favourite Abba songs to a monologue from grease, and Ivy just sits there with an expression that's just as bemused as it is entertained. Normally I feel like an asshole when I do this, but somehow the exchange (if you can call it that) is comfortable, and when my lunch hour ends I actually do feel a bit calmer.

But now I have to wait, and it's _excruciating_.

At 8:55 I head for the stairs and the tremors start on the first step. Just vibration at first, thrumming up through my feet and rattling the iron handrail. Then the ground shakes and I stumble, nearly taking the rest of the stairs on my back. I frantically grab for the railing, managing steady myself and then clinging to it all the way down to the bottom. When I get there I wait outside the door; just a few seconds until the alarms begin to blare, and then I push through screaming. I sprint, half tripping in feigned desperation on a mad flight to the guard booth, and I slam into the glass door, banging my fist against it.

"Help!" I cry, pressing my I.D. card to the barrier. "Please, _please_ let me in-" I babble frantically and the guard inside scrambles to unlock the door.

He's pretty young and he looks absolutely terrified, which is perfect- when he opens the door I push inside, whipping out one of my throwing knives. I kick the door shut and I slash at his throat, gasping when hot blood hits my face. He gurgles as I crouch to divest him of his passkey, and I roll him over onto his stomach so I won't have to give his dead eyes a peep show. Nearly quivering with excitement, I strip out of my bloody work clothes to change into my _new_ uniform. I trade sensible hose for black and white striped stockings, my blouse and skirt I switch out for a leather dress with long sleeves and thick, buckled straps across the front. The right half, over my heart, is cherry red, the left a glossy black. I figure the leather will provide some protection, but I went for flexibility over armour in the leg department. Finally, I take off my heels, lacing up my special boots-

"Neil?" _Shit._

I look up just in time to see another guard pressing his face to the window. His eyes go wide and he swears, backing away as I grab my spiked bat from the duffel. I know I need to get to him before he calls for backup because he's probably the only guard left on this level, so I throw myself at the door and I've got my fingers on the lever when another tremor rocks the building. I manage to brace myself against the door, but the guard is thrown completely off balance and he falls onto his back. I take advantage of the stun by throwing open the door and swinging my bat down hard against his face.

I know he's dead by the wet crackles his head makes when I pull back, but I whack him about 6 more times before going back into the guard booth and racing to paint my lips red and my eyes black before the next quake. When it comes I'm ready, and I brace myself. This time the lights flicker, but only for a second before they buzz back on. The sirens never stop; battering my eardrums as I shove the guns into a Looney Toons backpack I got at the dollar store, filling my brain with static when I attack the command center.

This is it- _He_ is on the other side of this; I'm about to set him free.

A flood of adrenaline makes my fingers shake as I bring up the control screen for cell 8 and swipe the passkey to authorize entry. Then I'm off, I'm sprinting for the cellblock, bat in hand. I push through the heavy doors and the next tremor throws me forward as it bathes everything in darkness. I wait expectantly for the system to come back on, counting to five- then reality sinks in.

I'm on my hands and knees in the isolation unit of a high security psychiatric facility, I'm functionally blind, and if the backup generators haven't kicked in so the doors are going to unlock. That's a little design flaw I came across when I was doing my research- if there's no lag before the back up comes on the system works great, but if more than five seconds pass, the locks disengage. Apparently they didn't think the patients would figure it out, but I wouldn't put it past them- especially not the worst ones. As if on cue I hear a click, and it's far too close to be J.

My first thought is that I'm lucky they can't see me, but I can't see them either. I can hear them though- just faintly over the ringing in my ears, and I realize that the sirens have cut out. The only sound in this place is the pounding of my heart and a rasping breath high above me.

 _Fuck_.

I tense all of my muscles, not daring to move for fear that I might give myself away. There's no _way_ they didn't hear me open the door, so I can either attack first or stay still and hope that they pass me- my mind jumps erratically back and forth between the two options but neither is particularly appealing until I realize how close the breath is, and I freeze. I can smell sweat and something metallic as they near, footsteps slow and strangely soft. I can almost sense the wiry body above them as the escapee treads dangerously close to my hands. Then, they stop.

My nerves clash with my unwillingness to move, and I cringe against the cold fear rising from my belly. Each second is long and arduous. Every breath they take, every shift in their posture is a grain of sand pushing down on my chest. The air I've been holding in begins to burn my lungs, and I'm starting to think I'll have to attack when _finally_ they begin to pace slowly away. Still, I don't take a breath until I hear the door open and slam shut.

Once my head stops spinning from the deluge of oxygen I stand, putting my hand on the wall to my left and before I think I'm running, counting the doors as my fingers brush over them until I'm _there_. _He's_ on the other side, and it isn't even locked like I thought it would be- I'm not sure this is real as I wrap my fingers around lever and pull. Without light from the hallway outside, his cell is pitch black and I can't hear anything inside. I take a tentative step forward, half worried that they've moved him when static cuts the downy silence, and dim red emergency lights switch on overhead.

I honestly couldn't have asked for a better entrance.

His head snaps up and he squints for a moment before a chemically intoxicated grin splits his face. His pupils are massive, nearly eating up all the green in his red-rimmed eyes. His hair is an utter mess, now faded and sticking up in every direction and he looks _stunning_.

Though he's still restrained in canvas and chain they've let him out of the gurney, and he sits against the padded wall in a deep slouch, long legs kicked out straight in front of him. He looks far too comfortable for someone who went through major surgery last week, but then again he also looks incredibly high. It would be funny if it didn't break my heart that they would dare lock him up and drug him like this while he's still recovering, and suddenly I'm on my knees next to him, grabbing at the chains they've used to keep him in his straight jacket. It takes me too long to pick the lock because my fingers are shaking and it feels like every nerve is firing all at once, but then he's laughing.

Ecstatic, haunting, _beautiful_ laughter- it fills me up and calms my raging mind, it forces out all the anxiety, all the fear and the uncertainty until there's nothing left but him. He's everything, and he's _perfect_. He keeps laughing as I forgo undoing the straps, opting to cut them with one of my throwing knives instead. His laughter gets bigger, tossing his head back as I clutch at him desperately, wetting the front of his jumpsuit with my tears. I allow myself a moment to press my face to his chest, breathing him in and it is _euphoric_ but we need to go so I force myself to pull back, unzipping my backpack.

I've kept my eyes down this whole time- the enormity of what I'm feeling would overwhelm me completely if he saw it. I stare at the numbers stamped onto the front of his jumpsuit as I pull one of the guns from the bag, but when his fingers wrap around my wrist squeezing hard enough that my bones crunch against each other, I have to look up. He's still grinning but it's different as he takes the gun, it's clear and savage, it's _triumphant_.

" _Good girl_..." I don't know if he's talking to me or to the gun, but I'm beaming, swelling up under his praise.

"I gotcha this too!" I bubble, pressing a new purple switchblade into his empty hand.

" _Soo_ thoughtful _…"_ He croons and his voice is dark as he flicks the knife open, something close to lust in his eyes as he watches the scarlet light play across its smooth surface. "It's a _pleasure_ to meet you Harley Quinn," His gaze is back on me, sharp as the blade in his hand and twice as lethal. "would you like to play a game?"

I don't need to answer; the question was completely rhetorical- I'd follow him anywhere and I do, taking his hand and letting him drag me out of his cell. Aside from a slight sway in his step he seems fine, at least not outwardly displaying any pain with the sudden motion. I'm half worried and half amazed- I mean does he just not feel it or has he healed enough already that the pain is negligible? If it's the former he could rip his stitches and-

His fresh laughter cuts through the budding panic, and my joy overwhelms me instead. I'm laughing now too, giggling wildly-

"For the love of _Einstein_ , will you _shut_ _up_?!" I fall out of my skip, turning toward the voice instinctively. _Eddie._

At first I feel gut wrenching guilt that he's _still_ down here- has he been in solitary this whole time? But then I remember the embarrassment, the shame that I felt when Leland told me that he'd asked for a new therapist, and suddenly I'm whirling. I swing my bat hard against the steel door, making a clang that echoes painfully. I scream with it, swinging again. I'm about to go for a third when my bat is wrenched from my hands and I'm pulled back from the door by the neck of my dress. J slides casually in front of me, pushing open the slat over the window and peeking inside.

" _Sorry_ , Eddie- didn't mean to interrupt your _you_ time, Harley's just a little over excited, you know how kids get-"

" _Harley_?" Eddie sounds surprised for once and I smirk. "Dr. Quinzel?" His face appears behind the bars, mouth curved into something like disappointment. "I thought you were better than this-" He sighs "You seemed smarter than the rest of them. I guess even _I'm_ wrong every once and a while."

The Joker turns to me with his brows arched, mouth curved into a mockingly scandalized 'O'. I jut a hip out, cocking my head to the side.

"Yeah, yeah _Edward_ , ya talk big game but last time I checked _I'm_ the one that broke into this place, and _you're_ the one who's still locked up! _But_ _hey_ , maybe I'm not that smart after all, cause I seem to have forgotten how to unlock the doors- do _you_ remember Mistah J?" He rubs his chin, screwing up his face in feigned concentration.

"You know cupcake, I don't believe I do- well, _shucks!_ " He exclaims. "See ya later alligator!" He chuckles, slamming the slat shut in Eddie's face and then racing for the exit like a kid heading for the stairs on Christmas morning.

I'm not far behind when he throws open the door and its like I've taken off a set of noise canceling headphones in the middle of a warzone. My ears fill with shouts and screams, wailing and crashing and somewhere far off, gunfire. At one time this would have been absolutely, bone chillingly terrifying, but I can hear the music and it is _exhilarating._

"Greedy _brat_." J has eyes on the guards I mangled on my way in, and I can't help a cheeky shrug. "You started playing without me- seems only fair I get a head start." He's running before he's finished speaking, bolting for the stairs and whooping with laughter and leaving me to sprint desperately after him. So this might not end up being the smooth breakout I was hoping for, but thats cool I can handle that. I just need to roll with the takes the stairs four at a time and I struggle to keep up- honestly, with the height he has on me he doesn't need the head start so I'm relieved when he darts out of the stairwell on the next level, even though we're nowhere near the cafeteria. My relief is short lived when I realize we've stumbled into medical, which means we're definitely going to run into someone.

J switches abruptly from a sprint to a jaunty stroll, he even starts whistling. Meanwhile I'm still out of breath, starting to panic ever so slightly about our odds of getting out, and that panic ramps up when I hear several sets of footsteps coming quickly in our direction. I only have time to pull my gun, but J does a spin as they round the corner, firing off a shot that would seem haphazard if it didn't nail on of the guards in the forehead. There are three left, decked out in full riot gear and seemingly glitching as they stand frozen, staring at us.

"Whoops!" J throws his hands up, gun swinging dangerously from a pinky and they flinch, bringing up shields and brandishing stun guns. Naturally, he ignores them, planting his hands on his hips and leaning forward to address the fallen guard. "Didn't see you there, muchacho." He giggles wagging a finger at the corpse

"Freeze Inmate!" The outburst is too high for the burly man it comes from.

"Aww don't hold it against me, Rambo!" J pleads with thick sarcasm, standing up straight and dropping his gun. I flinch at the clatter it makes when it hits the floor, I keeping mine at the ready. "You _know_ what they say about dancing with firearms… or was that running with knives?" Without warning, he darts forward and the switchblade appears out of nowhere before he buries it in the gap between slats of Kevlar over Rambo's lower stomach. He cackles, pulling out the knife and stabbing it in again, and again as the remaining men scatter. Without thinking I'm darting around my lover and his prey, pointing and squeezing the trigger.

I catch the closest guy in the back of the leg and he goes down, hitting his fellow escapee and knocking him to his knees. I'm sprinting after them and it's all instinct, just a shark chasing blood as I slam my bat against the downed man's back. He screams, and then fire rips through me in rapid cramps that roll out from my shoulder and throw me to the ground. I shove through the pain to rip out the leads, but when my eyes clear I realize that my attacker has already dropped the Taser, and he's advancing with his baton-

Out of nowhere J's switchblade dives deep in his eye socket, and he hits the ground. He _saved_ me!

"Thanks Mistah J! You're the best." Ignoring the horrible pins that still wrack me, I sit up, turning to beam at the man of my dreams.

"Anytime cupcake," He grins easily, sauntering forward to retrieve his knife. "You'll finish off that last morsel, won't you? Show daddy what you can do…" The end of the sentence is nearly a growl and a thrill runs through me as I take my bat, crawling up from my knees to stalk the last man not-so-standing. He's dragging himself along on his elbows, leaking blood from his mashed face and his shattered knee.

"Hey _mi_ ster jai _ler_ …" I sing, taking a wind-up swing with my bat before bringing it down on his ankle, and he wails when it crunches. "It ain't very nice to skip out on a game like that." I kick him in the side, rolling him over onto his back so he can see me shake my head. "You _abandoned_ your teammates!" The broken man throws his arms up over his face in some pathetic attempt to banish me, and I knock them away with old trusty, whose nails rip right through his protective gear to break flesh.

"Don't put your hands up when I'm talking to you!" I screech, losing focus momentarily as I whip around to look at J, who leans against the wall. "Can you believe this guy?"

" _No_ manners." He tsks the man, who's been reduced to a writhing mass, having abandoned all hope of escape.

"Are you a coward mister?" He shakes his head fervently but I doubt he even knows what I'm saying, so I drop back to my knees, setting down my bat and taking his face in my hands. "No? You're a good man, huh?" He nods; eyes squeezed shut as a rattling sort of whine pushes forth from his gritted teeth. "I thought so." I wink at him, patting his cheek. "Look I'm gonna give you a shot, ok? You just gotta scream for me." He nods again, desperate once more, eyes opening wide and delirious with the blood loss. "C'mon baby, scream!"

He does, he _howls_ and I shove my gun into his open mouth.

His head explodes backwards and paints the sterile white walls in red and gooey greyish-pink. Suddenly my head is spinning deliciously and I'm laughing so hard I can barely breath- I feel _high_. I roll onto my back, clutching my stomach and J leans into my field of view, his face upside down and above me. His pupils are larger than before and I don't know how that's possible, but he way he looks at me sets me on _fire_.

"How'd I do daddy-o?" I giggle, intoxicated more by him now than by the kill. His brows pinch down abruptly, and he crosses his arms.

" _Fine_ \- for a novice. He straightens, glancing disdainfully at the brain-spattered walls. "Your realism could use some work." With that he's off again, walking away from my splatter painting. I scramble to my feet, and I'm running after him when I hear the stairwell door slam shut behind me.

"HEY!" The thunderous bark is punctuated by a stutter of gunfire.

J snags my arm, pulling me with him and around the corner into the adjacent hall as rubber bullets ricochet off the wall next to his head, missing him by an inch. Just as soon as he's taken cover he swings his arm around and fires twice. I hear two distinct thumps as bodies hit the floor, and my angel giggles into the following silence.

"Think fast!" He shouts suddenly, darting forward.

He slides across the opening, firing off two more ace shots as he goes and the remaining three men respond with a torrent of bullets, cutting me off from him- _oh_ _no,_ I am _not_ letting this happen. I crouch, leaning out from the corner and aiming quickly to free three bullets. I let my arm drift up with the recoil, hitting the closest man in the groin, the chest, and right through the plastic faceguard on his helmet before I duck back to my cover. The other two advance, littering the ground with hot rubber that makes the air smell singed and thick. My blood is coursing with adrenaline but I wait until the farther man appears in view to I hold down the trigger, ramming bullets into central mass. I don't take a breath before I pivot out from the corner, sandwiching the last guy's head between the wall and my bat. His helmet turns into hard plastic shrapnel, so there's no doubt that he's down for the count. I'm about to celebrate because holy shit that was intense, and I just shot like three dudes!

Then I realize that I'm the last living thing in this hallway- I've lost my Joker, and the air is gone all over again.

I race down the hall he disappeared into, frantically checking shatterproof windows for any sign of his vibrant self. All I see is a bunch of doctors huddling under desks, pissing themselves, and I'm about to break down one of these doors and do some butchering because this cannot be happening- a frenzied knocking breaks my violent ideation and I turn to the sound. Bradley stares out at me through the window of a medical containment room, and for a moment we both freeze, him with something like fear and me with shock. Then he smiles in his dimly apologetic way and he points down towards the doorknob. I snap out of my panic and bend to pick the lock before pushing open the door.

"Why are you in here?" I block the opening with my body just as Bradley moves forward and he flinches back, which is quite satisfying.

"Jo-" He starts before apparently deciding that it sounds too familiar. "the Joker, he just shoved me in here-" My heart jumps and I snatch the front of his uniform without thinking.

"You saw him? Did he say where he was going?"

"No!" He flaps his hands next to his head like thats going to appease me. "He just came outta nowhere and ran off that way-" He points to the left with his thumb.

"Thanks Bradley!" I release him, and I'm about to pull the door closed again, but he blocks it with a foot.

"Wait! Doctor Quinzel, you _gotta_ let me out, I just wanna go home! I won't tell anybody- I _never_ tell anybody!" I don't give myself time to wonder exactly what he means by that.

"Look," I sigh, folding my arms. "I ain't got nothin against you, but if Mistah J put you in here he did it for a _reason._ I ain't stupid enough to undo the things he does- are you?" Poor Bradley's eyes widen at the implication of consequences.

"Uh- no Doctor Quinzel." He shakes his head and I grin.

"Didn't think so. Might see ya later, but hopefully not! Oh, and thanks for that pep talk ya gave me," I lean forward to plant a kiss on his sweaty cheek, making him blush. "That was real sweet." This time when I slam the door he isn't weary enough to react, and I'm running again, heading left.

I shove through the doors at the end of the hall into a darkened doctors lounge, releasing a growl of frustration upon confirming that it's empty. I'm about to turn back when I notice that someone's broken into the vending machine. There's a smattering of candy bar wrappers carpeting a pile of broken glass on the floor just in front of it. A glint catches my eyes in the thin red glare, and I squint to recognize another wrapper near the door that leads to the surgical units.

I dash forward, mind screaming that every second I waste is a second he could get farther away. I've got a hand on the door when something hard and hooks around my neck and yanks me back from my destiny. I'm pulled back against a lean body, and as a makeshift razor comes up in front of my face I smell sweat and metal.  
Just like in the solitary unit.

 _Godamn it._

" _shh_ -no-shhhhh… I'm going to _free_ _you_ from all that _flesh_."I recognize his thin, ravenous voice immediately. It's Victor Zsasz. _Victor_ fucking _Zsasz_ has me by the neck. "I was _waiting_ for a piggy, and then you just walked _right_ _in_!" His voice goes high and sharp with his zeal. The sound of it makes my world file down to a pinpoint as my heart pumps what must be pure cortisol. Not the good kind though, the shaking, gut-clenching, cold sweat kind.

"Of _course_ it was _you,_ I _knew_ you were _there,_ in the dark- _oh_ the blade _always_ knows-"

I interrupt his pre-slaughter ramble by throwing my head back and smashing it into his nose. His grip weakens enough for me to break loose but he kicks me hard in the back and I go down on all fours, trying not to faint with pain shooting up my spine. He yanks me up by the collar and shoves me forward, intending to crack my head against the wall, but I manage to get my feet up ahead of me. I kick off the wall, slamming back into him and knocking us both to the floor. I try to roll away, but he gets me by the hair and then he's crouching over me, the blood on his face turned black by red light as he presses a blade to my throat.

 _Fuck._ It's not supposed to end like this. Not now, not tonight, not when I'm so close to _actual_ freedom, so close to _him_ … This is everything; this is my life's work- not the work of a few weeks or a number of months but the culmination of my _every_ _breathing_ _moment_ , everything has been leading to this. _My_ _life_ has been preparation for _him_ , and it is _not_ for Zsasz to take. I'm about to try and knock the knife away without slitting my own throat when the doors are thrown open and I freeze. The strangely flat stutter of rubber bullets rips into the the room and then Zsasz flies off me, hitting the ground in a pile.

I'm only relieved for a second, breathing hard before I realize that the guards who just saved are going to want to lock me up too. The thought send cold jolts through my nerves as I scramble to a low crouch before the group of men, reaching for my gun. When they lower their weapons, I pause, and then I notice that the air doesn't _quite_ smell right. _Yes_ there's the tang of burnt rubber but there's something floral drifting over it, something soothing and heady that makes me lower my gun as well. Two of them move forward in an unnatural sort of unison, and as they pass me I see nothing on their faces. A massive grin breaks out on mine.  
 _Ivy-_ It has to be!

I watch with undisguised awe as her zombified men collect the unconscious Zsasz. Then, still moving as one, they march across the lounge to exit on the far side, and I start to laugh. I know I shouldn't draw any more attention to myself but I can't _believe_ what I just saw! I'm still giggling when I start running, shoving through the swinging door to the surgical ward. I don't even feel the pain that shoots down my legs from the bruising at the base of my spine because I can hear _him._ I can hear him babbling, whistling something just slightly off key, and before my brain catches up with my body I'm bursting in to operating room number three. My eyes take a moment to adjust to the white light in this room, turning everything blue after so much red. When they do, the sight of him is like a lungful of pure oxygen clearing my head.

"Ah, Doctor Quinzel!"He clasps gory hands as he turns, revealing a smile he's drawn onto his surgical mask, which is the only piece of sterile gear he's bothered to put on. "I was _just_ about to call you for a consult."

He strides forward, clapping me on the back and pushing me into the middle of the room. The high watt bulbs that light the surgical stage momentarily blind me, but then I realize that the woman in the chair is Warden Brieve. Her eyes widen in recognition when disjointed saccads finally take them to my face, and I smirk. He's already cut her open; he's made a nice hole, right in the top of her head. A section of her skull sits on the metal table beside her, along with a variety of vicious instruments and a few more candy wrappers.

When J comes up behind me, I reflexively stand to attention. Then he props an elbow on the top of my head, rubbing his chin in apparently deep thought and I nearly melt.

"The good warden here wanted to lose some weight, and who am _I_ to deny her? We just can't decide if she wants to lose it from her frontal lobes or her temporal lobes."

I cross my arms, leaning forward as if to inspect the specimen.

"Just take a little of both!" I shrug, dropping my feigned professionalism to beam up at him. "You can trash the fusiform gyrus- it's not like she needs to be able to recognize faces. While you're down you could take care of her superior temporal sulcus too. She'll see the world in snapshots! It'll save her a hell of a lotta time. Why not have your cake and eat it too, Doctor J? You deserve it."

"I _do_ , don't I?" He giggles. "I deserve it so much that I'm going to treat myself to her orbitofrontal lobe too. I think she's _due_ for a personality change." There's a charge in his voice, snapping through the air and drawing him closer to his prey.

" _Shall we?"_

I bound into a ready position next to his tray of tools and he lines up the endoscope.

"Forceps." I hand them over and he goes to work. His movements are precise, _easy_ , and I can tell by the way his eye are crinkling that he's grinning under the mask.

"Cannula."

His excitement is palpable as it threatens to burst through his skin, and that makes _me_ excited. I'm watching an _artist_ at work. I'm _assist_ ing him! I'm honestly starting to think this is all just an elaborate wet dream- I feel like Meredith Grey and I am _totally_ gonna bang McDrea-

"Snickers."

 _Pardon_?

"Snickers!" He snaps in response to my blank stare. "Snickers bar!"

Belatedly, I notice the half eaten chocolate bar in the front pocket of his jumpsuit and I snatch it, pulling back the wrapper. I push up his mask and hold it up to his mouth so he can take a bite as he pushes the cannula down into the midbrain.

"Hey how come you're going down there?" I peer forward to watch him insert the thin tube. "I thought you were gonna-"

" _Electrode_." He says, rolling his eyes.

I oblige, and when he slides the electrode into the cannula, Brieve's eyes go even wider than before. She starts screaming through her gag, trying to thrash against her vice tight binds though they wont let her move an inch, and she _knows_ it. My mouth pops open when I realize that he's decided to directly activate her fear response through her amygdala.

"How'd you learn to do this Mistah J?" I release the sentence in a reverent breath, because seriously- how _genius_ is this?

"Oh _y'know_ , pooh. I just have a way with knives." The pet name makes me blush but the threat in his tone sends blood somewhere else, and I have to look down as he goes back to his masterpiece, chuckling.

We set into a flow as he works; I move faster as he does, learning quickly to anticipate his demands as I study his process. Every incision and injection, every cauterization is clean and purposeful on his way into the temporal lobe. I'm so mesmerized by it that I don't notice the door until J abruptly abandons his scalpel to snatch a syringe full of Kainic acid from the table. He doesn't waste any time jabbing it up through the top of Brieve's eye socket and pushing down the plunger, and he leaves the needle in place as the acid eats her orbitofrontal lobe, calmly removing his mask and turning to smile at the two guards that have stumbled into the room.

"How can I help you folks?" His tone is jarringly polite as he strides forward and they balk, raising unsteady firearms.

"St-stand down, inmate!" Shouts the guy in front.

"What does that mean?" He asks, still advancing."You know I've always wondered- _stand_ _down_ \- what do you want me to _do_? Lie down? That seems awfully demeaning-" Suddenly his arm comes up, knocking the gun away and wrenching the unwitting guards helmet up to slit his throat with a scalpel.

"ALL UNITS TO SURGICAL, THE JOKER HAS ESCAPED-" I was so focused on J that I forgot about the other guard, and now he's screeching into his walkie as he sprint for the door. "I REPEAT-" I raise my gun and pull the trigger as fast as I can, but it's already too late- they know and they're coming, and now he can't finish his work!

Its like he's thinking the same thing because a rumble issues from his chest and shoulders hiking up as he whirls around to glare at the now unconscious warden. His eyes switch to the dead snitch and then back to the warden, and I catch just a hint of a grin before he snatches one of my pigtails and drags me out of the room. I stumble as he pulls me back down the hall toward the lounge, struggling to keep up with his stupidly lengthy steps.

"I'm _real_ sorry we lost her, Puddin." He freezes and I immediately realize my mistake- _I'm not supposed to say that out loud!_ I attempt a cute apologetic smile but it comes off sheepish.

 _"_ I don't know _what_ you just called me, but it was _awful_ and I _never_ want to hear it again." I mime a zipper across my lips but I don't have much confidence in the act and he glares at me. "More importantly, that was _your_ fault, you should have _seen_ him!" He barks, making me jump. The his expression switches from jagged cruelty to nearly sickening sweetness. "But that's ok, Harleykins. _You_ might make mistakes, but I never do- _I_ don't lose _anything_. Now be a nice girl and break daddy out of the slammer, hmm?"

"One breakout coming up, Pu-" He cuts me off with a growl and I squeak. " _Heh_ \- uh, Mistah J! We just gotta' get to the cafet-" He's already running. Mothe _fu_ -

" _Move_ it, Harl!"

I'm glad he seems to have forgiven my slip-up, but the guilt of it still clutches at me as I sprint to catch up, so I watch the way his hair moves as he run. I focus on the way his eyes flash as we burst out on the far side of the lounge to find another two guards, I revel in the way the bone and tendon of his hand pulls taught as he executes them each with a bullet to the head. He knows I'm staring, and he rolls his eyes as we head into the stairwell, muttering something about needy little twits, and then something along the lines of:

"Ought to maim that dame." Which he follows up with: "Heh, should be a game show." And then, after apparent contemplation: "I'd win." He manages to talk to himself all the way up three flights of stairs and the strange, mostly violent musings force me to giggle though I'm barely breathing from the exertion.

I slam into his back when he halts on the flight below the landing that exits onto the main floor. I manage to latch onto the railing at the last second just managing to avoid losing my balance, so I'm fairly confused when I look back to find him reaching up to the landing above.I'm about to ask what he's doing when I hear the door above swing open and he pulls back his hand, griping a guard by the ankle. There's a burst of gunfire as the guy goes down, comically taking a few men down with him. The rest of them move on us immediately, and I get behind him, holding bat at the ready as he races up the remaining stairs to meet them. I'm expecting a bit of a fight, but he's like a human grenade when he hits the knot of people, an explosion of sharp edges and blunt force that shreds through them like paper. _Holy shit._

And I thought the surgery was amazing- _this_ is im _possible_.

I'm semi-aware that I'm wearing a dopey sort of grin as I take out the few stragglers he leaves behind. I'm becoming increasingly distracted by the mere sight of him, I feel it flush my face and knot my insides. I'm reeling but he doesn't even stop to celebrate when he finishes off the last man, he just moves on through to the main floor with a business like composure as I stumble dizzily behind.  
I swear I'm leaving a trail of cartoon hearts.

He keeps going too, he tears down anyone that crosses our path and I'm so busy watching him that it takes me a second to notice what's happened to the west wing. The walls of the cafeteria are crumbling, perforated by thick green vines that writhe like snakes. Also there's something that looks like an angry, oversized rosebud in the corner of the room.

"Hey, hey, not the face!" My eyes snap back to J, and I find him standing magnificently in a pile of bodies.

"I get any more scars, I might as well cut it off." He laughs, raising his hands entreatingly. The last man stands in front of him, shaking with his gun pushed up between my Puddin's eyes. Lucidity hits me like a mallet and I start forward to destroy the guy, but J puts up my hand. I comply with what I think is considerable self- restraint.

"You look a little queasy, kid- did you eat something funky for lunch?" J rubs his stomach sympathetically, completely ignoring the gun to his head. "Here, let me help you- I know just the thing-"

He kicks the guard in the stomach and sends him stumbling back to hit the big angry rosebud, which promptly opens up to reveal long, sharp teeth and swallows him whole. My jaw drops in utter shock, and a quick glance at J reveals that he's almost as impressed as I am- he's definitely hiding it better though. He catches me staring and pins me with a glare.

"I see I'm not the only _friend_ you've made." His eyebrows arch, daring me to respond. I close the gap between us without thinking, but at least I have the sense to keep from wrapping my arms around him.

"I needed some muscle!" I shrug, trying to brush it off but his nostrils flare

"I'm _sorry_ ," He hisses "Have I been slacking off- have I not slaughtered enough _sheep_ for you?" He's leaning forward with the force of his rage, pupils suddenly reduced to pin-pricks. A shiver clenches me but I lean through it, pressing a palm to his chest. I feel the warmth, the racing thrum of his heart and my breath flutters with the butterflies that burst from my stomach.

"Oh _no_ , Mistah J! I ain't _ever_ seen anyone kill like _you_." The words come out in an unintentionally lascivious purr, and I feel my eyes widen in shock at my own audacity. One of his eyebrows jumps up out of his scowl and he purses his lips as he studies the rush of emotion on my face. I want to kiss him. I _should_ , I should just do it. It's a horrible idea, but I want to _so_ badly- he straightens, moving out of range though I attempt to follow on tiptoes.

"You look like road kill." He says it like a matter of fact, but there's glint in his eye that tells me he's waiting to see me hurt so I give him a great big smile, and I fan out my fingers to frame my bloody face and my frazzled pigtails. He scowls.

" _Well_?" He grumbles. "We're in the cafeteria, _what_ now?" One foot begins to tap, and he strokes the trigger of his gun with his index finger.

I'm not willing to test him, so I make a beeline for the kitchen, heading for the delivery exit to pick the lock. I'm about to check through the window when J pushes ahead of me, throwing open the door and strolling out into the yard without a care. A moments panic makes me hesitate to follow him, but then I realize that Ivy's already taken care of the guard presence outside- The yard is barely recognizable.

The paved drive has cracked, bursting with vines and more of those carnivorous rose buds, and the trees beyond the fence have grown wild, pushing closer to the building and reaching up to the sky with limbs bearing bodies that sway gently on organic nooses. They're like great big wind chimes, and I feel my lips part with awe as we pass beneath them.

Naively, I hope that J might like them too, but the tensing of his stride informs me otherwise, and I begin to gnaw my lip. I'm leading the way but only by an inch, and I track him from the corner of my eye. I wonder briefly if he's jealous of Ivy because of _me_ , but then I realize it has to be the bodies. The thought makes me smirk just as he trips dramatically, barely managing to catch himself before he hits the ground.

J wastes no time in whipping out his gun to fire on the offending root, but it dives beneath the soil just as the rounds make contact. He releases a frustrated roar through gritted teeth, and he goes to kick at the dirt when another root pops up to block him. Then a thick branch connects with his back, and he hits the dirt.  
 _What the fuck is going on?_

I stand, frozen dumbly as the tree twists around and then swings again, and its heavy branches smack against the ground just as J rolls out of the way. He scrambles to his feet, re-loading his gun at warp speed to shoot at the tree before it lashes out again and he has to duck. The towering oak doesn't react at all to the gunfire- probably because its a godamn _tree,_ but when it launches its next attack I throw myself into action, darting in front of J.

Miraculously the branches halt, and I only feel the rush of air that precedes them. I manage to breath, dropping my arms from their protective position in front of my face, and I stare uncertainly up at the oak, shifting from side to side before raising my voice.

"Uh…Ivy?" I don't know what I'm doing- can plants even _hear_? "Could you not attack Mistah J? This ain't a very nice way to thank me for breaking you ou-" There's a sudden yank on my ankle and the world tips upside down.

I'm swinging wildly, dangling upside down and screaming like a cat on fire until I realize that I'm just _hanging_ here. When I open my eyes I see J, finally grinning again as he watches me flail six feet above the ground from a vine. I give up my struggle, trying to give him a cute, appeasing smile as my face turns red with pooling blood.

"Hey Mistah Jaaaayyy?" I draw out the question in his name, pitching my voice up. "You wouldn't mind helping a girl out, would ya?"

"I dunno Harl," He snickers, crossing his arms and stepping closer. "I kinda like you like this. Might leave you here for bats to find you with your skirt up around your waist." He giggles, flicking my nose to make me squeak. "He'd be _so_ embarrassed-" Abruptly, he's yanked backward as a knot of vine wraps around his waist. "GODAMNIT THAT'S ENOUGH!" He snarls, flicking out his switch blade.

He hacks viciously into the vegetation, sinking the blade through it and into his own flesh in his frenzy. Once free he raises his gun and I think he's going to shoot _me,_ but then I'm dropping fast and I realize he shot me free instead. I tuck my head and shoulders just before I hit the ground and before I can get my bearings I'm being tugged to my feet, the pain of the fall making my vision tilt wildly as J breaks into a sprint and drags me with him.

We're stumbling, ducking and vaulting through Ivy's gauntlet, cutting our way through her army with inadequate knives. I'm so focused on keeping my legs under me that I'm not even sure we're headed in the right direction until I see a break in trees, and it distracts me long enough to take a branch to the stomach. I hear J laugh from somewhere just ahead of me, and it gets me up and running again.

Then we're _free._

Cool air bathes me, and everything bright with moonlight as the sky opens up above us. I feel like I'm seeing everything through the lens of a microscope, and I move almost robotically for the car keys. I don't even flinching when he snatches them away to unlock the passenger side because I can _taste_ the blood and roses that drift from the forest behind us. My hands shake as I open the driver's side, my knees threatening to fold as I get in, and if it weren't for the sound of him grumbling next to me, I wouldn't be sure that this moment is even real.

 _He_ is my reality.

He was just an idea when I met him, a fascination for sure but still no more embodied than a case study. But then he bared me. He stripped me of muscle and tendon, cutting and stitching it to suit his purpose before donning it like a tailcoat, and suddenly _I_ was the spectre. I was the naked bones, the theory, no more than a figment of his imagination until he decided to flesh me out again. He laid down the circuitry, pumping it full of battery acid and oxytocin, flooding synapses to liven new fibers to make _me_ real like him.

Nothing before _him_ has any meaning anymore and the memories blend, fading into each other until they're blurred and superimposed with _his_ face, his voice, _his_ needs and _his_ desires, because he's the only thing that matters. He is my reason to get out of bed, my reason to keep fighting, my smile and the very beat of my heart. In this tin can of a car I can feel _His_ body like a magnet, every part of me connected to every part of him pulling me tight and tearing me open.  
I want to cry and dance and scream because this is _it_.

This is my birthday, and I _finally_ feel like myself.

 **-THE END-**

 ** _MUAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAH_**


End file.
